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THE    "NO    NAME   SERIES." 

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"NO    NAME   SERIES." 

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13  -f 


'    • 


/ 


NO    NAME    SERIES. 


"  Is  THE  GENTLEMAN  ANONYMOUS  ?   Is  HE  A  GREAT  UNKNOWN  ? '» 

DANIEL  DERONDA. 


SALVAGE. 


"Draw  from  our  sad  experience  this  deduction, — 
Marriage :  a  state  that  won't  bear  reconstruction." 


BOSTON: 

ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 
1880. 


Copyright,  1 880, 
BY  ROBERTS  BROTHERS. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE      ....  7 

II.  UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY 18 

III.  HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND -  .    .  39 

IV.  His  WEDDED  WIFE 53 

V.   THE  TENDER 75 

VI.   LIFE  AT  SEA 87 

VII.  CHURCH  AT  SEA 102 

VIII.  To  LOVE 115 

IX.  To  HONOR 131 

X.  To  CHERISH 140 

XI.  THE  TELEGRAM 148 

XII.  AT  LAST 158 

XIII.  JEALOUSY '-173 

XIV.  THE  WRECK 183 

XV.  THE  RESCUE 199 

XVI.  TILL  DEATH  DO  PART 217 

XVII.  ON  A  REEF 231 

XVIII.  How  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER 247 

XIX.  IN  SICKNESS 262 

XX.  FOR  BETTER 274 

XXI.  FOR  RICHER  .                             , 286 


1782199 


SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE. 

But  now  the  dream  is  wholly  o'er, 

I  bathe  mine  eyes  and  see, 
And  wander  through  the  world  once  more 

A  youth  so  light  and  free. 

H.  W.  LONGFELLOW,  from  PFIZER. 

TT  was  the  middle  of  a  night  in  June,  or  rather 
-*-  in  the  very  earliest  hours  of  a  morning  in  the 
full  height  of  the  London  season,  that  two 
young  men  ran  down  the  steps  of  a  handsome 
house  near  Eaton  Square.  This  house  was  the 
residence  of  the  American  Minister,  whose  pri 
vate  means,  fortunately,  were  sufficient  to  make 
up  the  deficiencies  of  republican  liberality,  and 
enable  him  to  extend  to  all  comers  that  hospital 
ity  which  the  American  considers  his  due  from 
his  country's  representatives  abroad,  wherever 
found. 

Our  young  men  were  in  evening  dress.  One 
was  tall  and  dark,  with  a  superb  full  beard ;  the 
other,  much  slighter  in  frame,  wore  the  look 
of  a  man  wonted  to  society  and  to  London  ways. 


8  SALVAGE. 

Both  had  cigars  between  their  fingers  ;  that  of 
the  younger  man  was  already  lit,  and  he  gave  a 
light  to  his  companion  as  soon  as  they  found 
themselves  in  the  street. 

"Are  you  bound  for  your  lodgings,  Colonel 
Wolcott  ?  "  asked  the  younger  man. 

"  Indeed  I  am,"  replied  the  colonel,  laughing. 
"  I  am  not  habituated  to  London  hours  as  yet, 
though  I  shall  be  broken  in  soon  as  a  matter  of 
course  and  find  them  all  right,  as  I  did  rising 
before  daybreak  all  right  in  the  East." 

"  You  are  fortunate  in  coming  to  London  just 
when  you  did,"  said  his  companion.  "There  is 
nothing  in  the  world  more  delightful  than  the 
life  you  are  likely  to  lead  for  the  next  six  months. 
Your  book  has  made  a  hit  in  the  fashionable  and 
literary  circles  which  will  ensure  you  a  success 
ful  season  in  town,  and  that  will  be  followed  by 
another  round  of  engagements  in  the  country 
during  the  shooting  and  hunting  seasons ;  or, 
if  too  much  lionizing  proves  a  bore,  you  can 
break  away  at  any  moment  and  take  a  run  across 
the  channel.  Indeed,  that  is  one  of  the  good 
things  of  being  in  England.  You  are  certainly  a 
lucky  fellow,  Colonel.  Here  you  wake  up  one 
fine  morning  and  find  yourself  famous  in  a  cer 
tain  way,  and  that  at  the  beginning  of  the  season, 
too,  in  the  very  heart  of  the  civilized  world.  I 
hope  you  realize  your  good  fortune." 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE.    9 

The  other  laughed.  It  was  rather  a  forced 
laugh  at  first,  but  as  it  continued  it  became  more 
natural. 

"  It  is  no  use  for  me  to  sham  indifference,"  he 
said,  "for  truly  I  am  very  much  gratified  at 
my  little  success.  The  position  is  wholly  un 
expected.  It  is  what  cultivated  Americans  all 
dream  of  as  about  the  best  thing  that  can 
happen  to  anybody.  A  trip  to  Europe  is 
the  great  holiday  of  our  lives,  you  know ;  the 
hope  of  it  sustains  us  through  the  toil  and 
moil  of  business,  which  from  fifteen  to  thirty- 
five  gives  most  of  us  few  chances  of  pleasure. 
For  an  obscure  American  like  myself  to  find 
himself  a  lion,  even  in  a  small  way,  in  the  best  — 
I  mean  the  best  literary — English  society  is 
very  like  what  popularity  would  be  to  a  classic 
author  permitted  to  return  to  earth  and  enjoy 
his  fame  ;  and  I  have  had  too  few  of  this  world's 
good  things  in  my  day  not  to  enjoy  it  thoroughly. 
Even  the  snobbish  side  of  it  is  entertaining. 
Why,  there  was  a  fellow  at  my  lodgings  this 
morning  before  I  was  out  of  bed,  —  a  reporter, 
or  whatever  you  call  a  man  who  collects  artis 
tic  matter  for  the  illustrated  papers,  —  to  get 
my  photograph  for  'The  Illustration.'  I  felt 
the  compliment  to  my  beard  too  much  to  deny 
him,  only  I  am  afraid  my  complaisance  did  not 
do  him  much  service ;  for  I  told  the  maid  who 


10  SALVAGE. 


knocked  at  my  door  to  give  him  a  carte  de  visite 
from  the  mantel-piece  of  my  sitting-room,  and  I 
have  a  strong  impression  that  she  mistook  and 
got  hold  of  the  likeness  of  an  old  general  of  mine, 
now  serving  the  Khedive,  whom  I  stopped  at 
Cairo  to  see  on  my  way  from  Constantinople  to 
Malta." 

He  paused  a  moment,  and  went  on  :  — 
"  It  is  another  of  the  strange  new  things  that 
crowd  upon  me  to  find  myself  so  kindly  received 
by  all  of  you  at  the  Legation.  When  I  quitted 
civilization,  just  after  the  fall  of  our  Confederacy, 
Uncle  Sam  was  my  worst  enemy :  at  the  end  of 
five  years  I  find  myself  restored  to  his  protection 
and  honored  with  the  consideration  of  his  repre 
sentatives  abroad.  It  gives  me  a  queer  sense  of 
having  outlived  my  former  self,  and  of  being  on 
a  visit  to  posterity.  To  others  the  changes  of 
the  past  five  years  have  been  gradual,  but  to  me 
they  have  been  unsoftened  even  by  newspaper 
intelligence.  To  become  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  security  under  the  old  flag  is  a  surprise  indeed 
to  me.  I  was  astonished  by  a  throb  of  old-time 
feeling  when,  in  the  harbor  of  Constantinople,  I 
recognized  the  Stripes  and  Stars.  There  is  noth 
ing  like  five  years  of  exile  in  the  East  to  revive 
one's  love  of  country." 

"The  old   hatreds   are   subsiding,"    said   the 
Secretary   of   Legation,   "subsiding,  that   is  to 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE.   II 

say,  as  fast  as  politicians  and  reconstructionists 
will  permit.  Americans  certainly  are  the  most 
wonderful  people  in  the  world  for  accepting 
the  inevitable.  We  are  educated  to  it.  Ours 
is  a  land  of  fever  and  ague  in  politics,  Colonel 
Wolcott,  —  of  hot  fits  succeeded  by  cold  chills. 
But  prosperity  and  peace  are  springing  up 
finely  in  Georgia,  your  own  State.  By  the 
way,  I  was  surprised  the  other  day  to  see  that 
Georgia  has  exactly  the  same  acreage  as  Eng 
land.  It  is  five  years,  is  it  not,  since  Lee's 
surrender  ?  I  admit  that  more  ought  to  have 
been  done  politically  to  settle  our  vexed  ques 
tions  ;  but  so  far  as  social  feeling  is  concerned, 
I  believe  all  bitterness  at  the  North  has  passed 
away." 

"  You  mean  to  hint  that  the  South  is  not  so 
placable  ?  I  presume  not.  But  then  it  was  the 
seat  of  war.  Would  the  non-combatants  of 
Massachusetts  be  able,  do  you  think,  to  feel 
kindly  towards  Southern  troopers,  stragglers, 
bummers,  and  camp-followers,  who  had  chopped 
up  their  fruit-trees,  laid  waste  their  fields  and 
gardens,  scattered  their  families,  burned  down 
their  homesteads,  and  overturned  the  very  foun 
dations  of  their  social  customs  ? — However,  that 
is  not  what  we  were  talking  about." 

"  No  ;  and  here  we  are  at  the  door  of  your 
lodgings.  Shall  I  come  to-morrow  morning 


12  SALVAGE. 


and  take  you  to  see  some  of  the  sights  of 
London?" 

"Thanks,  but  to-morrow — this  morning, 
I  mean,  —  I  am  to  breakfast  with  my  publisher, 
who  has  asked  a  lot  of  literary  men  and  travellers 
to  meet  me,  —  members  of  the  Geographical 
Society,  the  Asiatic,  and  the  Travellers'  Club.  I 
look  forward  with  great  pleasure  to  seeing  these 
men,  whose  very  names  have  been  full  of  associ 
ations  and  interest  to  me  for  years." 

"  Well,  I  can  only  repeat  that  you  are  a  fortu 
nate  fellow,  and  I  envy  you  the  frank  spirit  in 
which  you  accept  your  popularity  even  more  than 
I  do  your  literary  position,  though  that  might 
gratify  any  man.  Your  travels  out  only  six  weeks, 
three  editions  already  called  for !  reviews  in  the 
Times  and  the  Quarterlies,  and  all  flattering !  A 
man  without  family  incumbrances  too.  Well, 
you  have  the  ball  at  your  feet  —  and  it  will  be 
pleasant  to  watch  you  kick  it.  Good  night  and 
bon  repos  !  " 

Colonel  Wolcott  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs  to  his 
sitting-room,  where  a  lamp  was  dimly  burning  in 
expectation  of  his  arrival. 

"  Yes,  I  am  a  lucky  fellow ! "  he  exclaimed,  as 
he  entered  his  apartment.  "  I  am  fortunate  in 
deed  to  have  no  ties,  no  responsibilities,  no  draw 
backs  to  my  thorough  enjoyment  of  this  bright 
streak  of  prosperity. 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE.       13 

"'A  youth,  light-hearted  and  content, 

1  wander  through  the  world; 

Here,  Arab-like,  is  pitched  my  tent, 

And  straight  again  is  furled.' " 

The  quotation  seemed  to  call  up  some  sadden 
ing  reminiscences.  He  did  not  go  on  to  the  next 
verse  about  the  "  two  locks  "  of  hair,  but,  with  a 
passing  gesture  of  impatience  and  discomfiture, 
turned  up  the  lamp,  and  made  a  sudden  bright 
ness  in  the  chamber.  On  the  table,  underneath 
the  lamp,  lay  a  thick  letter. 

"  Ah  ! "  he  said,  looking  at  the  cover,  "  what 
is  it  now,  I  wonder?" 

He  broke  the  seal,  and  read :  — 

"  DEAR  SIR,  —  I  forgot,  this  morning,  when  I 
had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you,  that  some  letters 
for  you  had  come  addressed  to  our  care.  I  for 
ward  them  with  apologies.  I  have  secured 
Murchison,  Layard,  Kinglake,  and  the  rest,  for 
our  breakfast  to-morrow  morning.  Sir  Roderick 
will  afterwards  introduce  you  at  the  Travellers' 
and  the  Oriental.  Nothing  must  prevent  your 
coming.  We  shall  breakfast  at  sharp  ten. 
"  Yours  truly, 

H    » 

"  Be  quite  easy,  my  dear  sir,  nothing  shall  pre 
vent  my  coming,"  remarked  Colonel  Wolcott 
aloud.  "  My  travels  in  the  steps  of  Marco  Polo 
make  me  more  anxious  to  see  Sir  Roderick  Mur- 


1 4  SALVAGE. 


chison  than  any  other  living  man.  I  wonder  if 
he  agrees  with  my  theory  about  the  old  bed  of 
the  Oxus  ?  Letters  from  America!  Alas!  I 
have  friends  there  no  longer.  I  propose  to  begin 
a  new  life,  and  to  make  new  friends  and  a  new 
future.  Let  me  see,  from  my  mother's  lawyer  in 
New  York.  Ha !  I  know  what  he  writes  about. 
I  hope  he  can  manage  it." 

"NEW  YORK,  April  10,  1870. 
"  MY  DEAR  COLONEL  WOLCOTT,  —  Permit  me 
to  express  the  high  gratification  it  was  to  us  to 
receive  yours  from  Constantinople,  dated  the  gth 
of  March,  after  a  total  silence  of  so  many  event 
ful  years.  We  have  noted  the  contents  of  your 
communication,  and  believe  that  by  proper  appli 
cation  to  the  courts  of  the  State  of  Indiana  the 
thing  you  desire  can  be  very  easily  accomplished. 
We  will  set  about  it  at  once,  and  a  few  weeks 
may  relieve  you.  You  gave  us  no  address,  so 
that  I  direct  my  letter  to  your  London  publisher. 
Allow  me  to  congratulate  you  as  an  author  and 
a  traveller  —  nothing  like  it  since  Eothen. 
"  Your  most  obedient, 

"  ROBERT  S.  DEANE." 

"  So  far,  so  good,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott,  and 
took  up  the  second  letter. 

"NEW  YORK,  May  4,  1870. 
"  MY  DEAR  COLONEL, —  In  pursuance  of  the 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE.   IS 

business  intrusted  to  our  firm  in  your  favor  of 
March  9,  from  Constantinople,  I  have  called  on 
Mr.  Engels, —  Mrs.  Wolcott's  father, —  and  have 
informed  him  that  we  desire  to  avail  ourselves, 
with  as  little  delay  as  possible,  of  the  well-known 
facilities  for  divorce  offered  by  the  laws  of  Indi 
ana.  I  represented  to  him  that  as  you  had  lived 
apart  from  Mrs.  Wolcott  for  nine  years,  neither 
party  holding  any  communication  during  that 
time  with  the  other,  there  could  be  no  difficulty 
in  dissolving  your  union  on  the  ground  of  deser 
tion.  I  suggested  that  it  might  be  more  speedy 
and  satisfactory  if,  on  his  daughter's  part,  he 
should  bring  suit,  and  so  join  us  in  an  amicable 
arrangement  for  the  dissolution  of  the  marriage. 
He  expresses  his  entire  willingness  to  do  so,  pro 
vided  Mrs.  Wolcott  be  permitted  to  retain  the 
child  ..." 

"  Child  !  "  exclaimed  Colonel  Wolcott.  "  What 
child?  My  child?  /  the  father  of  a  child? 
I  never  heard  of  any  child !  What  can  the  man 
be  thinking  of  ?  Why  have  I  never  heard  of  it 
before  ?  Why  did  she  never  send  me  word  I 
had  a  child  ? " 

He  flung  himself  back  in  his  chair,  still  hold 
ing  the  lawyer's  letter. 

"True  —  true,"  he  said  at  last,  "during  the 
war  I  got  no  letters.  I  left  her  suddenly.  I 
had  borne  everything  from  her  and  from  her 


1 6  SALVAGE. 


friends  which  a  man  is  bound  to  bear.  I  was 
driven  to  leave  her.  She  said  nothing  to  me 
of  her  situation,  but  it  may  have  been  so. 
The  child  must  have  been  born  while  I  was  in 
Alabama,  and  when  the  war  was  over  I  went  at 
once  abroad.  I  wrote  her  father  word  that  I  was 
going  to  the  East,  and  got  no  answer.  To  be 
sure,  answer  was  not  easy.  Even  the  news  of 
my  poor  mother's  death  reached  me  at  second 
hand.  It  was  a  difficult  matter  even  for  loving 
wives,  during  our  war,  to  communicate  with 
their  husbands  in  the  Confederacy,  and  she  — 
Well,  I  never  wrote  to  her,  that  is  true.  But 
a  cJiild !  —  it  seems  incredible.  A  child  would 
alter  everything.  Son  or  daughter,  did  he 
say?..  ." 

"  He  expresses  his  entire  willingness  to  do  so, 
provided  Mrs.  Wolcott  be  permitted  to  retain 
the  child,  from  whom  nothing,  he  was  sure, 
would  prevail  on  her  to  part.  I  told  him  that  the 
child  being  already  more  than  seven  years  of  age, 
the  father  is  its  legal  guardian,  but  that  after  the 
divorce,  if  proceedings  had  been  satisfactory,  it 
was  probable  some  arrangement  might  be  made 
by  us  to  meet  their  wishes.  We  will  therefore 
see  Mrs.  Wolcott's  lawyer,  and  hurry  on  the  suit, 
leaving  you  to  advise  us  further  on  this  point  as 
you  think  proper.  Old  Mr.  Engels  hinted  an  in 
tention  of  amply  providing  for  his  grandson,  and 


AT  THE  DOOR  OF  GOOD  FORTUNE.       I/ 

even  of  settling  an  annuity  upon  yourself,  should 
you  waive  all  claim  to  the  child's  custody." 

"  The  bargaining  Yankee  !  "  exclaimed  Colonel 
Wolcott,  starting  from  his  chair.  "  Does  he 
think  his  dirty  Northern  dollars  can  buy  from  a 
Southern  gentleman  his  own  flesh  and  blood  ? 
It  is  a  boy,  then!  His  grandson!  My  boy  — 
my  own  boy  !  He  is  more  than  eight  years  old, 
and  they  have  never  let  me  hear  a  word  about 
him.  I  —  his  own  father  !  And  I  do  not  even 
know  his  name  !  I  never  heard  of  him  before  !  " 

He  flung  open  the  window  in  strong  excite 
ment,  and  leaned  out  to  catch  a  breath  of  morn 
ing  air.  As  he  did  so  his  ear  caught  the  hum 
that  in  a  mighty  city  precedes  the  dawn.  In 
London  streets  there  is  one  hour  of  night  to 
twenty-three  of  day.  Colonel  Wolcott  turned 
from  the  open  window,  and  paced  up  and  down 
his  sitting-room,  with  a  tempest  raging  in  his 
bosom. 

As  he  walked,  the  circumstances  of  his  life  rose 
up  before  him. 


1 8  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

UNADVISEDLY   AND    LIGHTLY. 

What's  become  of  Waring 
Since  he  gave  us  all  the  slip? 
Chose  land-travel  or  sea-faring, 
Boots  and  chest,  or  staff  and  scrip, 
Rather  than  pace  up  and  down 
Any  longer  London  town? 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 

T  TE  saw  himself  a  little  boy  upon  a  Georgia 
-*•  -*-  farm,  playing  in  the  woods  with  many  dogs 
and  many  little  darkies.  He  was  an  autocrat 
among  his  playfellows,  but  an  autocrat  whose 
sway  was  tempered  by  nature  into  a  very  endura 
ble  despotism. 

He  remembered  himself  in  the  woods  upon  a 
summer's  day  with  Harry,  Cato,  Jefferson,  'Lias, 
Melchisedeck,  and  James  Buchanan,  when  a 
slow  procession  came  wending  through  the  trees 
up  to  the  mansion.  An  old  mauma,  wiping  her 
eyes,  came  to  fetch  him  to  the  house.  In  the 
great  hall  he  found  relatives  and  friends,  who  had 
brought  his  father  home,  wounded  to  death  in  a 
duel.  In  less  than  an  hour  after  the  child  was 
summoned  from  his  play,  the  tragedy  was  over. 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  19 

• 

The  shock  of  that  moment  he  could  feel  still.  It 
would  go  with  him  to  the  last  hour  of  his  life, 
burnt  into  mempry  as  with  a  fiery  brand. 

Next  he  saw  himself  bidding  a  sad  and  long 
farewell  to  the  home  of  his  childhood,  the  strong 
hold  of  his  Southern  pride.  His  mother  had 
been  a  Northern  beauty,  wooed  and  won  at  one 
of  the  Virginia  springs.  She  hated  the  seclusion 
of  Southern  country  life,  though  she  liked  well 
enough  the  importance  of  owning  a  large  planta 
tion.  On  her  husband's  death  she  purchased  a 
pretty  place  on  the  North  River,  living  there,  or 
at  Newport,  during  the  summer  months,  and 
passing  the  winters  usually  at  a  New  York  hotel 
or  fashionable  boarding-house. 

He  saw  himself  at  school,  —  a  school  which 
brought  him  under  better  influences  than  did  his 
mother's  intimates.  He  saw  himself  a  half-grown 
lad  upon  the  lawn  of  his  own  Southern  home,  un 
der  the  live  oaks,  draped  with  hanging  moss,  dur 
ing  such  happy  brief  vacations  as  he  was  permitted 
to  pass  upon  the  old  plantation.  There  lived  the 
uncle  and  cousins  who  were  allowed  to  reside, 
rent  free,  in  the  old  homestead  ;  there  was  his 
blooded  riding  mare,  his  favorite  gun,  the  dogs 
who  hailed  his  holiday  with  wild  delight,  the 
dusky  faces  lingering  round  the  porch,  the  boys, 
who  looked  upon  his  stay  as  a  perpetual  Whit 
suntide.  The  cousins  worshipped  him  ;  his  uncle 


20  SALVAGE. 

deferred  to  him  ;  his  dogs  and  dependants  fawned 
upon  him.  Education,  means,  experience,  ac 
quirements,  and  position  gave  the  boy  a  weight 
far  greater  than  any  to  which  he  was  entitled 
from  his  years  in  that  simple-hearted,  primitive, 
hero-worshipping  society.  Lancelot  Wolcott's 
memory  dwelt  tenderly  upon  his  Southern  home, 
and  his  hand  clenched  and  his  brow  darkened 
as  he  thought  of  his  property  laid  waste,  his 
horses  requisitioned,  his  dogs  masterless.  He 
remembered,  with  a  thrill  of  anger  and  bitter 
ness,  his  last  sight  of  the  charred  ruins  of  his 
homestead, —  a  black  blot  on  the  green  land 
scape,  marking  the  swathe  of  Sherman's  mighty 
scythe.' 

Again  the  tableau  shifted,  and  he  was  at 
Bonn,  whither  his  mother  had  taken  him  when 
he  was  seventeen.  There,  with  the  German 
language,  he  had  learned  German  notions, — a 
little  rationalism,  a  little  materialism,  something 
of  the  German  Protestant  ideas  of  loose  obliga 
tions  in  marriage.  He  had  imbibed  these  things 
unconsciously,  yet  they  formed  an  important  part 
of  that  substructure  of  impressions,  —  the  "gold 
or  silver,  wood,  hay,  stubble,"  of  ideas  and  princi 
ples,  which  we  collect  to  build  our  future  lives 
upon. 

Then  his  thoughts  shifted  to  Newport.  He 
was  riding  on  horseback  over  the  lovely  curving 


UNA D VISEDL Y  AND  LIGHTL Y.  2 1 

Second  Beach,  in  days  when  fashion  still  encour 
aged  horseback  exercise  on  the  long  stretches  of 
those  glorious  sands.  Beside  him  rode  Cora 
Noble,  faultless  in  beauty  and  equestrian  equip 
ment.  Again  he  felt  his  heart  beat  as  she  floated 
with  him  through  the  waltz,  or  coquetted  in  the 
mazes  of  the  German  ;  again  she  trusted  to  his 
strong  arm  in  the  under-tow,  and  let  him  battle 
(with  that  arm  round  her  waist)  the  stringent 
force  of  the  receding  tide ;  again  he  led  her 
from  the  surf  over  wet  shingle  to  one  of  those 
unpainted  pine-board  boxes  which  they  call "  bath 
ing  houses  "  on  *he  Newport  beach. 

He  recalled  the  sudden  shock  with  which  he 
learned  one  day  of  her  engagement  to  an  elderly 
New  York  banker,  and  the  moment  when,  in  her 
cool  seaside  drawing-room,  he  sat  in  the  half- 
light  thrown  by  the  summer  sunshine  through- 
green  blinds,  waiting  to  hear  his  fate  —  to  lose 
or  win  her. 

He  saw  her  enter,  in  a  fresh  and  faultless  robe 
of  crispest  frills  and  flounces,  and  take  a  seat 
near  him.  Again  he  pleaded  his  deep  love,  his 
long  devotion :  and  she  answered  calmly  that  his 
foreign  education  had  given  him  no  insight  into 
the  social  necessities  of  American  society ;  that  • 
an  American  girl,  being  chaperon  to  herself,  could 
not  be  blamed  for  tentative  efforts  to  find  out 
who  might  best  suit  her  as  a  husband ;  that, 


22  SALVAGE. 

as  guardian  of  her  own  interests,  she  was  bound 
to  look  out  for  the  best  possible  match,  and  that 
she  sincerely  regretted  if  anything  in  her  man 
ner  had  given  rise  to  hopes  which  she  had  never 
supposed  him  seriously  to  expect  her  to  fulfil. 

That  night  he  left  Newport  on  a  fishing  expe 
dition.  To  the  day  of  his  death  he  would  re 
member  the  awful  loneliness  of  the  Isles  of  Shoals, 
where  he  stayed  a  week.  The  blow  was  a  severe 
one, —  all  the  more  that  it  "came  not  as  a  single 
spy,"  but  followed  by  battalions.  His  pecuniary 
affairs,  just  at  this  time,  proved  out  of  joint.  The 
Wolcott  estate  had  never  been  properly  divided. 
A  black  storm  was  gathering  on  the  political 
horizon,  which  alarmed  all  holders  of  Southern 
property,  and  "great  stirring  of  heart"  was  felt 
amongst  those  to  whom  the  Southern  States 
were  dear. 

The  accounts  laid  before  Lancelot  Wolcott, 
about  a  year  after  his  coming  of  age,  were  by  no 
means  satisfactory.  His  mother  had  been  ex 
travagant,  their  agents  incompetent,  his  uncle 
supine.  In  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  he  was 
forced  to  tell  himself  that  the  mercenary  beauty 
who  had  thrown  him  over  had  done  wisely. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  exclaimed,  "  in  her  capacity  of 
chaperon  and  guardian  to  herself,  she  may  have 
already  satisfied  her  own  mind  by  private  inquiry 
as  to  my  '  means,'  or  the  want  of  them." 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  23 

Who  knows  ?  Women  of  that  stamp  are  very 
wise  in  their  generation,  and  capable  of  calm, 
keen  management  of  their  own  interests,  un 
troubled  by  superfluous  delicacy. 

When  Lancelot  reappeared  at  his  mother's  cot 
tage  on  the  North  River,  the  cause  of  his  ill  looks 
required  no  conjecture.  Every  gossip  in  every 
circle  of  the  federated  upper  ten  cackled  to 
every  morning  visitor  and  detailed  to  every  cor 
respondent  in  "the  set"  the  news  that  Cora 
Noble  —  was  n't  it  too  bad  of  her  ?  —  had  flung 
over  young  Wolcott  for  old  Tontine. 

One  of  the  first  annoyances  that  greeted  Lan 
celot  Wolcott,  when  he  came  back  to  the  world 
again,  was  his  mother's  importunate  desire  that 
he  should  marry,  —  marry  at  once,  without  delay. 

Her  arguments  were  varied  and  cogent.  It 
would  be  the  best  way  of  getting  over  all  feeling 
about  Cora  Noble.  It  was  desirable  to  marry 
before  he  had  in  any  way  hardened  into  being  a 
bachelor.  It  was  particularly  to  be  wished  that 
he  should  choose  a  rich  woman,  and  so  mend  the 
falling  fortunes  of  his  family.  Why  should  not 
rich  girls  be  as  charming  as  poor  ones  ?  more 
so,  indeed,  for  they  had  full  command  of  those 
advantages  on  which  many  of  a  well-bred  woman's 
charms  depend.  In  short,  Mrs.  Wolcott  brought 
her  arguments  to  a  point  by  assuring  him  that 
she  had  found  the  very  match  for  him  in  Miss 


24  SALVAGE. 

Adela  Engels,  only  daughter  of  the  very  rich  old 
merchant  who  owned  the  handsome  villa  next 
her  own. 

"Fresh  from  school,  my  dear  Lancelot, — >an 
unsophisticated  creature !  You  can  mould  her 
into  anything  you  wish.  Very  pretty,  very  duti 
ful,  religious,  and  all  that ;  ready  to  look  up  to  her 
'Sir  Lancelot'  as  a  hero.  She  knows,  all  the 
things  schools  ever  teach  young  ladies,  and  her 
father  is  as  rich  as  —  well !  they  say  there  is 
nothing  to  which  we  can  compare  old  Engels's 
riches.  She  is  a  girl  who  will  -have  crowds  of 
men  after  her  as  soon  as  she  puts  her  head  into 
society,  but  she  appears  to  have  no  taste  what 
ever  for  fashionable  life,  and  her  father  and  Mrs. 
Engels  are  keeping  her  back,  —  keeping  her  for 
you,  Lancelot,  for  I  've  sounded  them,  and  their 
views  are  mine  precisely.  You  may  have  the 
first  chance,  if  you  please,  with  this  girl.  And, 
my  dear  son,  if  you  win  Adela  Engels  for  your 
wife,  I  think  I  shall  ask  nothing  more  to  make 
me  happy." 

At  first  Lancelot  smiled  languidly  at  these 
appeals,  then  he  became  exasperated  to  the  high 
est  degree  by  his  mother's  pertinacity ;  and  he 
took  a  dislike  to  old  Mr.  Engels,  who  omitted  no 
possible  opportunity  of  thrusting  upon  him  his 
unwelcome  society. 

Adela,   absent    from    home   at   the    moment, 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  2$ 

was  sent  for.  Lancelot  saw  perfectly  well,  and 
marked  each  careful  step  taken  for  their  intro 
duction  to  each  other.  He  was  languidly  amused 
by  the  commotion  and  his  mother's  vain  hopes. 
They  first  met  at  a  dinner-party  at  Woodbine, 
the  Engels's  villa,  to  which  his  mother  made  it  a 
matter  of  especial  concern  that  he  should  accom 
pany  her. 

Adela  was  arrayed  in  white  muslin  and  blue 
ribbons,  —  the  very  picture  of  an  ingenue.  He 
found  her  unformed,  self-conscious,  a  thorough 
school-girl,  perfectly  aware  of  what  her  elders 
were  expecting,  intrenched  behind  two  giggling 
comrades  of  her  own  age,  who  looked  on  Lance 
lot  Wolcott  (the  most  finished  man  of  fashion 
they  had  ever  seen)  as  the  declared  and  accepted 
lover  of  the  great  heiress. 

Had  Lancelot  been  in  spirits,  he  might  have 
thought  it  good  fun  to  attack  her  prudery,  and, 
after  overpowering  the  friends  who  held  the  out 
works,  to  approach  her  by  the  lines  and  parallels 
of  scientific  flirtation.  But  he  had  no  heart  just 
then  for  jesting  in  any  way  with  young  ladies, 
—  no  heart  even  to  take  flight,  no  spirit  to  re 
sist  the  small  machinations  of  their  respective 
mothers. 

Day  after  day,  under  the  joint  manoeuvres  of 
both  families,  he  drifted  on  to  the  fate  prepared 
for  him.  He  saw  enough  of  Adela  to  be  sure 


26  SALVAGE. 


that  she  was  a  thoroughly  good  girl,  unspoiled  as 
yet  by  any  taint  of  family  vulgarity  ;  he  perceived 
that  she  was  absorbed  in  a  sort  of  awful  admira 
tion  of  himself,  for  which  he  could  not  but  be 
grateful.  She  was  apparently  a  tabula  rasa, 
upon  which  might  be  written  anything  that 
suited  him.  Of  his  affair  with  Cora  Noble  she 
had  somehow  learned,  for  even  in  boarding- 
schools  the  matter  had  been  canvassed  and  dis 
cussed  as  an  interesting  item  of  current  gossip ; 
and  he  came  at  last  to  the  point  of  saying  to  him 
self  that,  as  to  feel  a  passion  for  any  woman  was 
thenceforth  impossible  to  him,  might  it  not  be 
well  that  he  should  gratify  everybody  by  throw 
ing  his  handkerchief  to  this  highly  eligible  and 
attainable  young  person  ? 

Then  came  a  day  when,  by  the  river's  brink,  — 
very  much  as  Pendennis  offered  himself  to  Laura 
Bell,  to  take  or  to  fling  away,  as  she  thought  proper, 
—  he  offered  himself  to  Adela.  She,  poor  child, 
in  no  wise  resembled  that  self-possessed,  complai 
sant  Laura,  with  theories  which  she  was  prepared 
to  carry  out  at  all  hazards,  —  a  just  consideration 
for  her  own  importance,  experiences  with  Mr. 
Pyncent  to  fall  back  on,  and  a  predetermined 
consciousness  that  the  eternal  fitness  of  things 
destined  her  to  bear  rule  over  her  husband.  Not 
at  all.  Adela  was  overwhelmed  by  a  sense  of  the 
honor  and  bliss  conferred  upon  her  by  this  noble 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  2/ 

suitor.  Of  course  it  would  be  her  happiness  to 
obey  him,  to  adore  him,  to  cherish,  honor,  and,  so 
far  as  she  might  be  permitted,  comfort  him  for 
the  loss  he  had  sustained  in  Cora  Noble. 

She  gave  herself,  therefore,  into  his  keeping, 
with  no  -misgivings  except  such  as  arose  from 
fears  that  she  might  prove  unworthy  of  him. 
Before  she  slept  that  night  she  read  that  most 
tender  and  unrivalled  speech  of  the  heiress  who 
weds  Bassanio,  also  Tupper's  chapters  upon  love 
and  marriage,  and  Mr.  Coventry  Patmore's 
"Betrothal."  She  felt  herself  in  harmony  alike 
with  dramatist,  proverbial  philosopher,  and  poet, 
and  was  as  far  from  thinking  that  there  could 
be  cold,  ungenerous  Bassanios  in  the  world  as 
that  there  were  critics  who  could  gibe  at  the 
poetry  of  Tupper. 

As  Colonel  Wolcott,  more  than  nine  years 
after,  paced  his  London  lodgings,  turning  over  in 
his  mind  the  pros  and  cons  of  divorce  by  the  laws 
of'  Indiana,  he  felt  a  moment's  tender  thrill  pass 
through  his  heart  as  he  remembered  the  soft 
trustfulness  with  which  this  girl  had  given  her 
self  to  him  for  life,  and  her  blush  of  pride  and 
pleasure  as  he  first  pressed  her  to -his  bosom. 

Their  engagement  was  short,  and  Lancelot 
Wolcott  was  absent  a  good  deal  of  the  time. 
The  fuss  of  preparation  annoyed  him  much,  and 
tete-a-tetes  with  Adela  bored  him  and  depressed 


28  SALVAGE. 


him.  They  left  him  more  disappointed  with 
himself  than  with  her,  and  yet  there  was  a  cer 
tain  feeling  of  irritation  at  her  evident  satisfac 
tion  in  the  affair  and  in  the  love  she  "had  won. 

She  had  him  fast.  Surely,  that  was  enough  for 
her  and  for  her  parents.  Why  must  they  expect 
him  to  address  to  her  the  vows  that  were  still 
sacred  to  the  memory  of  another  ?  Nor,  truth  to 
tell,  was  Adela  fitted  for  light  lovers'  chat, —  the 
give  and  take  of  happy  girls  and  men  who  are 
consciously  in  love  with  each  other. 

Had  Lancelot  cared  for  her,  their  talk  would 
probably  have  risen  to  high  themes  of  abstract 
speculation,  to  disquisitions  upon  social  science, 
discussions  of  ethics,  mild  metaphysics,  or  points 
of  feeling ;  for,  strange  to  say,  this  kind  of  con 
versation  is  an  unerring  symptom  of  a  mutual 
inclination  between  men  and  women.  The 
young  people  who  engage  in  it  are  feeling  their 
way  in  the  dark  towards  mutual  discoveries  ;  and 
Adela  could  have  done  her  part  in  such  grave 
speculations  (on  which  she  had  thought  much) 
far  better  than  she  did  in  merely  conversational 
small  change,  with  thoughts  which  secretly  wan 
dered  as  her  sweet,  shy  fancies  shrank  back,  re 
buked  at  her  lover's  indifference. 

Adela  could  think,  feel,  and  reason,  but  neither 
training  nor  experience  had  given  her  any  skill 
in  the  battledore-and-shuttlecock  of  lively  con- 


UNADVISEDL Y  AND  L IGU TL Y.  29 

versation.  She  was  too  much  afraid  of  the  ex 
alted  Lancelot  to  let  her  real  tenderness  or  her 
timid  hopes  peep  out  from  under  the  veiling  pro 
priety  and  decorum  of  her  demeanor. 

Still  less  was  Lancelot  pleased  with  the  light 
in  which  he  appeared  to  be  regarded  in  the 
Engels  family.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Engels  hardly 
seemed  to  consider  him  a  free  agent.  Their 
daughter's  sense  of  his  exalted  worth  did  not 
apparently  extend  to  her  family.  They  failed 
to  recognize  that  the  moment  was  at  hand  when 
rights  that  they  themselves  had  thrust  upon  him 
would  become  his  rightful  claim;  rather,  they 
regarded  him  as  a  sort  of  steward  of  their  own 
selection, — worthy  and  satisfactory,  no  doubt,  but 
in  some  subordinate  way  an  appendage  and  appur 
tenance  to  the  glories  of  the  Engels  connection. 

That  autumn  brought  a  time  of  fierce  political 
excitement,  and  Lancelot  gladly  absented  him 
self  during  the  wearisome  discussions  over  the 
trousseau  and  the  wedding,  feeling  that  his  real 
interest  and  destiny  lay  far  more  in  the  results  of 
the  election  of  John  Bell  or  Abraham  Lincoln 
than  in  matters  connected  with  his  marriage. 
Like  the  victims  who  stood  quietly  to  let  men 
gild  their  horns,  be-garland  them  with  flowers, 
and  lead  them  to  the  pompous  fate  prepared  for 
them,  he  went  through  one  of  the  most  magnifi 
cent  of  tedious  weddings,  —  a  wedding  whose 


30  SALVAGE. 


mere  details,  at  "  the  usual  rate "  per  line,  fur 
nished  many  a  poor  reporter  with  a  supper. 

They  were  married,  and  set  off  alone  to  begin 
a  new  existence,  to  weld  their  two  lives  into  one, 
make  their  far  different  antecedents  coalesce, 
and  fashion  unity  out  of  diversity  ;  to  combine 
into  strength,  disintegrate  into  indifference,  or  to 
harden  into  hostility,  as  might  happen. 

As  Nature  invents  ways  for  completing  her  own 
processes,  and  provides  by  natural  instincts  for 
the  careful  cherishing  of  all  things  newly  born, 
so  has  she  invented  the  glamour  of  "  true  love  " 
by  which  to  set  a  wedded  couple  forward  on  their 
road  to  happiness.  They  see  each  other,  and  they 
see  life,  only  through  this  beautifying,  glorifying 
medium.  It  serves  them  till  their  eyes  can  bear 
the  light ;  it  tides  them  over  quicksands  ;  by  its 
help  they  walk  in  cataleptic  safety  among  gins 
and  snares ;  and  by  the  time  it  fades,  there  has 
sprung  up  a  healthy  undergrowth  of  permanent 
affection. 

In  this  case,  there  was  no  glamour  in  the 
husband's  eyes,  and  the  young  wife  soon  saw 
her  situation  in  the  dispiriting  and  chilly  morn 
ing  light  of  uncompromising  reality.  She  had 
dreamed  a  young  girl's  dreams,  she  had  read  in 
poetry  and  fiction  of  the  devotion  of  lovers. 
She  found  keen  disappointment  in  her  honey 
moon.  Was  it  so  with  every  married  pair  ?  she 


UNA D VISEDL Y  AND  LIGHTL Y.  3 1 

asked  herself.  Was  it  true  that  all  romance,  all 
happiness  in  life,  was  only  a  creation  of  novel 
ists  and  poets  ?  Did  they  earn  their  daily  bread, 
their  favor  with  the  public,  by  trading  on  the 
impressibility  of  inexperienced  victims  whom 
poetry  and  art  could  mislead  ? 

She  was  far  too  proud  and  sensitive  to  confess 
her  disappointment  or  complain  of  it,  but  the 
little  loves  and  charms  and  coquetries,  that  Were 
all  ready  to.  peep  forth  had  there  been  sunshine 
to  entice  them,  ran  back  into  their  winter  nests, 
a-nd  left  her  dull  and  unattractive.  She  was  glad 
when  she  got  back  to  New  York  and  to  familiar 
people.  Life  did  not  look  so  chilly  and  so  strange 
in  the  shelter  of  her  family  circle.  She  began  to 
receive  and  to  make  visits,  to  display  herself  as 
a  rich  bride.;  and  this  still  further  estranged  her 
husband.  He  thought  her  frivolous,  contented 
with  mere  vulgar  gauds  and  fashionable  observ 
ances  ;  and  each  day  they  drifted  more  and  more 
widely  apart. 

Then  came  secession.  Lancelot's  heart,  empty 
and  bruised  by  disappointment,  began  to  brood 
over  the  news  from  the  far  South,  though  he 
was  not  prepared  as  yet  to  be  an  advocate  of 
actual  separation.  The  heart  of  Adela  began  to 
stir  within  her  too,  responsive  to  the  traditions 
in  which  she  had  been  brought  up,  and  to  the 
feelings  of  her  family. 


32  SALVAGE. 


There  were  times  when  Lancelot  Wolcott 
could  hardly  keep  his  seat  at  his  father-in-law's 
table,  days  wh.en  his  dependent  position  galled 
him  past  all  endurance.  Each  day  he  wished 
himself  away,  at  the  South  with  his  own  people, 
free  to  express  his  sympathies,  free  to  discuss 
unsettled  points  in  politics,  free  to  offer  his  wis 
dom  in  council  (so  long  as  moderation  and  for 
bearance  might  appear  of  any  use)  and  then,  if 
need  were,  to  draw  his  sword. 

At  last  arrived  the  crisis :  the  balls  that  tore 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  at  Sumter,  the  iQth  of 
April  in  the  streets  of  Baltimore,  fell  like  a 
lightning-bolt  on  the  country,  and  with  a  fierce 
suddenness  rent  apart  Lancelot  Wolcott's  rela 
tions  with  his  wife  and  her  family. 

No  blaze  of  popular  fury,  since  the  world  began, 
ever  equalled  in  rapidity  and  fierceness  that 
which  followed  the  events  at  Charleston  and  at 
Baltimore.  In  old  times,  popular  excitement  took 
weeks  to  diffuse  itself  over  a  broad  area:  this 
spread  like  a  prairie-fire,  lighted  at  a  thousand 
points  by  eager  hands  ;  and  ardent  patriots,  both 
at  North  and  South,  started,  like  Clan  Alpine, 
from  the  earth,  with  weapons  in  their  hands. 

In  the  general  effervescence,  words  were  said 
in  the  presence  of  Lancelot  Wolcott  that  a 
far  tamer  nature  would  not  have  endured  to 
hear.  In  the  conjugal  chamber  even,  Adela 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  33 

herself  raised  the  standard  of  battle  and  grew 
aggressive.  In  what  appeared  a  holy  cause, 
she  dared  to  measure  herself  against  her  hus 
band.  The  lights  she  followed  showed  her 
wholly  in  the  right,  and  Lancelot  wholly  in  the 
wrong.  From  such  safe  standing-ground,  backed 
by  all  history,  by  the  pulpit,  by  the  Word  of 
God  as  she  interpreted  it,  and  by  her  own  sur 
roundings,  she  dared  to  discharge  some  keen 
shafts  of  patriotism.  He  answered  with  bitter 
ness.  To  her  the  dispute  was  no  mere  matri 
monial  jar,  in  which  it  might  have  been  her 
wifely  duty  to  show  tenderness  to  the  prejudices 
of  her  husband,  —  no,  she  was  called  on  as  a 
patriot  to  lift  her  voice  against  treason,  treachery, 
and  national  suicide,  in  a  tremendous  crisis.  For 
the  cause  of  her  country,  the  honor  of  its  flag, 
she  braved  domestic  discord,  felt  proud  of  her 
own  vehemence,  and  gloried  in  "her  excitement 
and  her  tears. 

The  emotion  communicated  itself  to  the  whole 
household.  All  united  against  the  Southern  hus 
band,  whose  temper,  irritated  and  unstrung,  was  in 
no  condition  to  bear  the  assault  patiently.  The 
attack  ended  by  Mr.  Engels  telling  him  that  he 
had  better  leave  his  house ;  that  no  man  with 
such  sentiments  as  he  avowed  was  fit  company 
for  loyal  men,  or  a  fit  husband  for  his  daughter. 

Lancelot  looked  at  Adela.  Her  eyes  did  not 
3 


34  SALVAGE. 


dissent.  The  fire  of  his  anger  and  excitement 
died  within  him.  He  rose  up,  deadly  pale. 

"  I  have  an  engagement,"  he  said,  looking  at 
his  watch.  "  I  will  say  good-by  to  all  of  you." 

Adela  was  short-sighted.  She  did  not  see  the 
expression  of  his  face  as  he  quitted  them. 

Days  passed,  and  no  one  heard  of  him.  At  last 
arrived  a  note  to  Mr.  Engels,  dated  simply  "  The 
left  bank  of  the  Potomac  : "  — 

"I  have  joined  my  own  people.  Let  my 
mother  know  this.  Make  what  arrangements 
you  think  proper." 

To  Adela  there  was  not  one  word.- 

Thus  stood  the  case  as  it  now  opened  itself  be 
fore  him  in  his  London  lodgings,  five  years  after 
the  collapse  of  the  Confederacy.  Lancelot  had 
fought  until  the  war  was  over.  When  the  "  Lost 
Cause"  was  hopelessly  lost,  he  had  sailed  for 
Europe,  being  indeed  excluded  from  pardon  by 
the  terms  of  the  first  amnesty.  He  wrote  to 
his  mother's  lawyer  in  New  York,  and,  after  long 
delay,  received  the  news  of  her  death.  The 
North  River  estate  had  been  sold  at  a  great 
sacrifice,  during  the  worst  period  of  depression, — • 
only  a  few  thousand  dollars  remained  to  him. 
Like  another  outcast  of  whom  we  all  have  heard, 
he  gathered  his  substance  together  and  went  into 
a  far  country.  It  had  always  been  his  ambition 
to  explore  the  unknown  interior  of  Asia.  In  his 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  35 

present  mood  his  heart  cried  out  that  better  than 
the  convulsions  of  the  New  World  was  the  stagna 
tion  of  Cathay.  As  a  traveller  he  exhibited  strik 
ing  personal  qualities  and  made  some  fortunate 
hits.  He  succeeded  in  preserving  his  journals 
through  various  risks  and  dangers,  and,  during  a 
forced  detention  in  the  mountain  fortress  of  a  tribe 
of  Afghan  robbers,  occupied  himself  by  writing 
out  the  narrative  of  his  perils  and  discoveries. 
A  young  Englishman  was  in  his  company,  and 
they  were  released,  by  British  influence,  at  the 
same  time.  The  Englishman  went  back  to  Eng 
land,  taking  with  him  the  MS.,  which  he  put 
into  the  hands  of  a  great  London  publisher.  It 
chanced  to  come  out  at  the  right  moment  and 
under  the  right  auspices.  When  Colonel  Wol- 
cott  (having  reached  London  the  night  before) 
woke  up  on  the  morning  of  the  day  on  which  our 
story  begins,  he  found  himself  well  on  the  way  to 
be  the  temporary  lion  of  a  London  season. 

The  raw  chilliness  of  early  dawn  stole  in  upon 
him  through  the  open  window  after  this  night 
of  agitation  and  reminiscence.  When  the  maid 
came  to  put  his  little  sitting-room  in  order  she 
was  surprised  to  see  its  occupant  there,  still  in 
evening  toilette,  with  morning  twilight  struggling 
with  the  yellow  flicker  of  the  lamp,  which  yet 
burned  on  the  table. 

The  first  order  he  gave  her  was  to  call  the 


36  SALVAGE. 

landlady,  when  he  settled  his  bill  and  gave  up 
his  lodgings.  After  this  he  hurried  to  an  Inter 
national  ticket-office,  and  applied  for  passage  to 
New  York  in  the  next  steamer. 

"  The  Crimea  is  next,  she  sails  to-morrow," 
said  the  clerk.  "  Or  will  you  wait  for  a  Cu- 
narder  ? " 

"  Whichever  goes  first.  I  am  impatient  to  get 
home  on  pressing  business,"  said  the  colonel. 

"  I  doubt  if  there  is  any  berth  to  be  had  in  the 
Crimea,"  said  the  clerk,  consulting  a  plan  of  the 
vessel.  "  All  were  taken  up  a  day  or  two  ago  by 
a  large  party.  But  perhaps,"  he  added,  "  if  you 
apply  to  the  office  at  Liverpool  or  on  board,  at 
the  last  moment,  you  may  happen  on  a  vacancy. 
Passengers  often  give  their  berths  up  just  as  the 
ship  is  ready  to  sail." 

The  colonel  had  stimulated  this  man's  inter 
est,  either  by  the  look  of  disappointment  in  his 
face,  or  by  the  propitiatory  offering  of  a  fine  cigar. 

"  Thank  you.  I  shall  lose  no  time.  I  '11  take 
the  first  train  to  Liverpool." 

He  drove  to  the  house  of  his  friend,  the  Sec 
retary  of  Legation,  whom  he  found  still  in  bed. 
In  a  few  words  he  announced  that,  in  conse 
quence  of  letters  received  the  night  before,  he 
was  going  home  in  the  Crimea. 

"  What !  give  up  all  your  prospects  for  the 
season  ? " 


UNADVISEDLY  AND  LIGHTLY.  37 

"  I  must  leave  London  by  ten  o'clock.  Will 
you  make  my  apologies  at  the  Legation,  and  to 
your  chief,  with  whom  I  am  engaged  to  dine  on 
Monday,  and,  —  another  thing,  —  if  you  can, 
oblige  me  by  seeing  my  publisher  ?  though  that 
is  not  necessary,  perhaps,  since  I  have  sent  him 
a  note  full  of  regrets  and  excuses.  Tell  him 
how  disappointed  I  am  to  miss  his  breakfast  this 
morning.  I  shall  never  have  such  a  chance 
again.  I  am  sure  you  will  excuse  my  troubling 
you." 

"  Oh !  certainly.  I  will  do  it  for  you  with 
pleasure,  or  rather,  I  should  say,  with  extreme  re 
gret.  I  execute  many  commissions  in  my  official 
capacity.  We  of  the  diplomatic  corps  are  the 
servants  of  our  republican  sovereigns." 

"  I  shall  be  back  again,  perhaps,  before  the 
season  is  over,  but  I  know  that  by  going  home 
now  I  miss  my  chance.  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  will 
find  her  material  elsewhere.  A  traveller  differs 
from  a  literary  man,  —  he  has  but  one  success. 
His  reputation  is  worthless  after  it  grows  stale. 
I  should  have  enjoyed  the  pleasant  things  that 
seemed  in  store  for  me.  Good-by,  and  thank 
you  for  much  kindness  at  the  Embassy." 

So  saying,  Colonel  Wolcott  ran  down  the  stairs, 
opened  the  front  door  before  the  servant  could 
perform  that  duty,  and  closed  it  after  him,  as  no 
Englishman,  whatever  his  excitement,  would 


38  SALVAGE. 


have  done.  For  English  social  etiquette  de 
mands  that  a  stranger's  exit  shall  take  place  in 
the  presence  of  a  competent  witness,  who  is  held 
responsible  for  the  propriety  of  the  departure. 

In  half  an  hour  he  was  in-  a  first-class  carriage 
at  the  Euston  Square  station,  waiting  to  start  for 
that  New  York  that  he  had  left,  in  a  white  heat 
of  pain  and  anger,  nine  eventful  years  before. 


HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND.  39 


CHAPTER    III. 

HER   WEDDED    HUSBAND. 

Come  with  me,  them  delightful  child, 
Come  with  me,  though  the  wave  is  wild 
And  the  winds  are  loose.    We  must  not  stay, 
Or  the  slaves  of  the  law  may  rend  thee  away. 

Then  sit  between  us  two,  thou  dearest,  — 
Me  and  thy  mother. 

SHELLEY. 

/COLONEL  WOLCOTT,  alone  in  his  railway 
^*-x  carriage,  with  his  maps,  bag,  the  morning's 
"  Times,"  "  Punch,"  and  the  last  illustrated  paper, 
sat  looking  idly  at  the  motley  English  crowd, 
which  flocked,  with  more  superfluous  haste  than 
would  have  showed  itself  among  Americans,  into 
the  station. 

The  crowd  was  as  uninteresting  as  it  was  mot 
ley,  until  three  persons  appeared  who  attracted 
his  attention.  These  were  an  old  gentleman  in  a 
light  overcoat,  with  a  stolid  English  face,  white 
whiskers  of  old-fashioned  cut,  and  silvery  hair ; 
a  lady  of  middle  height,  closely  veiled,  and  dressed 
in  mourning ;  and  a  young,  frank-looking,  dark- 
haired  boy,  in  a  velvet  suit,  who  clung  to  his 


40  SALVAGE. 


mother's  skirts,  —  for  they  were  evidently  mother 
and  child. 

It  was  the  first  child  of  that  age  and  condition 
whom  Colonel  Wolcott  had  happened  to  see 
since  the  startling  news,  a  few  hours  before,  of 
his  own  paternity  ;  and  he  looked  at  the  little  fel 
low  with  a  lively  interest.  He  was  evidently  a 
gentleman's  son.  From  the  boy,  Colonel  Wol 
cott  glanced  at  the  mother.  She  wore  a  travel 
ling  wrap  of  light  stuff,  which  concealed  her 
figure ;  but  he  was  struck  by  the  dainty  neatness 
of  her  gloves  and  boots,  the  elasticity  of  her  walk, 
and  the  whole  pose  of  her  person.  He  had  been 
used  to  watch  veiled,  shrouded  females  in  Mo 
hammedan  lands,  and  could  discern  a  woman's 
points  "under  her  muffler."  There  was  some 
thing  about  this  woman,  little  as  he  could  see  of 
her,  that  attracted  him,  —  a  dignified  ladylikeness, 
a  "  cultured  grace,"  which  marked  her  one  who 
differed  from  the  common  crowd  of  travellers. 

As  he  watched  the  group,  a  man  who  was 
selling  railway  literature  came  up  to  offer  them 
an  illustrated  paper. 

"  Portrait  of  Colonel  Wolcott,  the  distinguished 
traveller,  sir  !     Here  you  have  him  ! " 
t   The  old  gentleman  pushed  him  roughly  on  one 
side,  and  became  fussy  in  his  search  after  a  car 
riage. 

To  the  colonel's  satisfaction,  they  stopped  be- 


HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND.  41 

fore  the  door  of  the  one  which  he  occupied,  and 
in  a  few  moments  were  seated  in  his  company. 
The  lady  seated  herself  by  a  window,  on  the 
same  side  with  himself;  the  little  boy  climbed 
into  a  place  beside  her,  a  vacant  seat  being  left 
between  himself  and  Colonel  Wolcott.  The  old 
gentleman  sat  opposite  the  lady. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma !  "  cried  the  boy,  pushing 
her  and  pointing  to  something  in  the  crowd, 
"  look  !  look  !  Oh  !  turn  your  head  and  se~e  ! " 

"  Indeed,  Lance,  I  cannot  see.  I  am  too  short 
sighted." 

.  These  were  the  first  words  Colonel  Wolcott 
heard,  and  the  tone  thrilled  him.  He  drew  back 
into  his  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  slouched  his 
hat  over  his  brows,  looking  steadily  at  her  as  she 
unpinned  her  veil  and  prepared  to  make  herself 
comfortable  for  the  day's  journey. 

Could  it  be  Adela  ?  Could  that  be — his  boy? 
She  had  called  him  Lance  !  As  his  eyes  rested 
on  her  features,  he  began  to  recognize  them,  but 
how  changed  since  he  last  saw  her  !  The  un 
formed,  over-dressed  young  girl  of  his  remem 
brance  had  ripened  into  a  remarkably  graceful 
and  distinguished-looking  person.  He  said  to  him 
self  that  perhaps  she  only  so  impressed  him  be 
cause  he  was  entirely  unused  to  cultivated  women. 
But  no !  He  had  been  at  the  Minister's  the 
night  before  ;  he  had  seen  European  ladies  at 


42  SALVAGE. 

Cairo,  Alexandria,  and  Malta.  There  was  some 
thing  singularly  high-bred  and  attractive  in  the 
set  of  her  head  and  the  curve  of  her  cheek,  —  in 
the  little  ears  whose  beauty  was  accented  by  a 
tiny  jewel. 

Colonel  Wolcott  sat  as  if  stunned  by  the  dis 
covery.  "  Who,"  he  asked  himself,  "  is  the  old 
gentleman  ?  Where  can  they  be  coming  from  ? 
Where  can  she  be  going  ?  " 

He  looked  at  her  embroidered  satchel  lying 
upon  a  vacant  seat.  On  its  side  were  worked  in 
monogram  three  Anglo-Saxon  letters,  which  he 
fancied  might  be  the  initials,  "A.  E.  W."  But 
pasted  on  its  bottom  was  a  paper  label,  which  re 
moved  all  doubts  and  afforded  him  the  certainty 
he  desired. 

"  Mrs.  Wolcott,  passenger  by  the  Crimea."  He 
made  a  sudden  resolution  that,  whatever  it  might 
cost  him,  he  would  make  the  voyage  on  that  ship. 
He  would  persuade  some  other  passenger  to  give 
him  up  his  berth,  —  bribe,  if  need  be  ;  pay  any 
thing  :  but  go  to  New  York  in  the  Crimea,  at  all 
hazards.  He  would  not  again  lose  sight  of  Adela 
until  their  relations  to  each  other  were  defined. 
What  possibilities  of  explanation,  of  reconcilia 
tion  might  not  arise  on  shipboard  in  a  twelve 
days'  voyage  !  —  though,  alas  !  he  knew  her  mind, 
through  Mr.  Deane,  concerning  their  relations  to 
each  other.  That  thought,  like  a  chill,  sudden 
wave,  swept  over  his  visions  and  blotted  them. 


HER   WEDDED  HUSBAND.  43 

"  How  far  is  she  still  bound  to  me  ?  "  he  asked 
himself.  "  She  has  accepted  —  with  willingness, 
the  lawyer  says — the  prospect  of  a  divorce. 
She  is  to  lend  me  her  assistance  to  dissolve  our 
marriage.  She  never  sent  me  news  of  my  boy's 
birth,  she  uttered  no  remonstrances  against  our 
separation.  She  is  very  rich,  and  I  am  very  poor. 
I  will  not  put  my  neck  again  under  the  yoke  of 
her  family.  Perhaps  we  are  divorced  already,  — 
Indiana  law  is  swift,  they  say, — who  knows? 
Good  heaven !  how  could  I  have  guessed  what 
time  would  make  of  her?  I  see  a  likeness 
to  her  former  self ;  but  she  gave  no  promise  in 
her  youth  of  such  perfection.  What  chance  have 
I  to  win  her  back,  if  she  is  free  to  choose  another 
husband  ?  Would  she  choose  me,  from  all  men, 
after  what  has  passed  ?  And  would  it  be  desira 
ble  that  I  should  succeed  in  winning  her  if  I 
could  ?  And  yet  I  am  the  father  of  her  child. 
She  has  called  him  Lance,  it  seems,  —  Lancelot, 
after  me !  " 

His  mind  dwelt  with  complacency  upon  this 
thought.  He  was  grateful  that  his  own  name 
had  been  remembered,  and  that  it  did  not  hap 
pen  to  be  Thomas  or  John. 

Before  he  could  recover  his  self-possession,  the 
train  started,  and  the  boy  moved  to  the  seat 
opposite  him,  to  be  near  the  window.  Colonel 
Wolcott  made  way  with  a  sort  of  tender  awe. 


44  SALVAGE. 

He  would  not  give  up  this  "delightful  child." 
Such  was  his  instant  resolution.  And  yet  his  new 
sense  of  the  inestimable  value  of  such  a  child  to 
any  parent,  awakened  a  new  sympathy  for  her 
who  shared  with  him  the  claim  of  parentage: 

Another  moment,  and  the  train  was  in  rapid 
motion. 

"  May  I  look  at  your  picture-paper,  if  you 
please,  sir  ?  "  said  Lance. 

The  wondering  father  placed  it  in  his  hand. 
It  was  to  the  picture  of  a  man  in  an  Oriental 
uniform,  with  a  full  beard  and  bald  forehead,  that 
little  Lancey  turned.  Under  it  was  printed :  — 

"  COLONEL  LANCELOT  WOLCOTT,  THE  DISTIN 
GUISHED  TRAVELLER." 

"  That 's  my  name,"  said  Lance,  in  a  confiden 
tial  whisper,  after  spelling  out  the  letters  under 
the  woodcut.  "  That 's  my  name,  and  this  pic 
ture  is  the  likeness  of  my  papa.  It  don't  look 
like  him,  though.  It's  not  like  mamma's  photo 
graph  that  she  used  to  wear.  This  soldier  has 
an  old  bald  head.  It  is  not  like  my  papa  a  bit. 
But  what  a  big,  long,  splendid  beard  he  has  got, 
has  n't  he !  " 

"Do  you  like  long  beards?  His  beard  is 
no  longer  than  mine." 

"  No  !  but  I. say,  where  did  you  get  that  beard, 
though  ?  Did  it  take  a  long  time  for  it  to 
grow  ? " 


HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND.  45 

"  It  took  nine  years,  and  it  grew  in  the  East, 
as  your  papa's  did." 

"O  mamma,"  cried  little  Lance,  "here's  a 
gentleman  come  from  the  East,  and  I  think  per 
haps  he  knew  papa  !  " 

"  Come  here,  Lance  ;  let  the  gentleman  alone," 
said  their  elderly  escort  in  a  sharp  tone. 

Adela  turned  round  and  looked  earnestly  at 
the  stranger,  but  she  spoke  no  word.  He  felt 
that  it  was  touch  and  go  with  his  identification. 
A  sudden  impulse  seized  him.  If  she  failed  to 
detect  him,  he  would  take  advantage  of  the  posi 
tion  little  Lance  had  made  for  him.  It  might 
help  him  during  the  voyage. 

"  Would  you  like  the  paper,  madam  ? "  he  said 
in  a  somewhat  muffled  tone.  She  took  it  as  he 
held  it  out  to  her.  He  saw  her  furtively  glance 
at  the  woodcut  labelled  with  his  name,  trying, 
as  he  could  well  guess,  to  reconcile  the  present 
ment  with  her  recollections  of  her  husband. 

As  we  already  know,  the  illustration  was  the 
result  of  a  mistake,  and  the  portrait  was  the  like 
ness  of  a  confederate  ex-general  in  the  service 
of  the  Khedive.  It  helped  to  mislead  Adela, 
however,  and  she  sat  in  speechless  surprise,  try 
ing  to  understand  why  her  husband  at  thirty-two 
should  look  like  a  man  of  sixty. 

As  he  gazed,  her  face  became  more  and  more 
familiar  to  him,  in  spite  of  all  time's  improving 


46  SALVAGE. 

touches.  It  was  the  face  of  Adela  Engels 
still.  Those  were  her  tender,  soft,  short-sighted 
eyes,  full  of  the  pleading  wistfulness  that  comes 
from  a  sense  of  deficient  vision.  He  began 
to  understand  why  she  had  not  recognized  him. 
She  was  very  short-sighted,  as  he  now  recollected, 
and  his  beard,  which  had  been  acquired  since 
they  parted,  was  an  effectual  disguise.  Still,  he 
reflected,  it  was  odd  that  she  had  failed- to  know 
his  voice.  Short-sighted  people,  as  a  rule,  find 
compensation  for  their  misfortune  in  an  especial 
keenness  of  hearing.  He  did  not  take  into  ac 
count  how  a  habit  of  speaking  only  in  a  foreign 
tongue  alters  the  accent  and  gives  a  foreign 
modulation  to  the  tone.  Evidently  she  was 
wholly  unaware  so  far  that  the  husband  of  her 
youth  sat  beside  her. 

The  bustle  which  accompanied  their  pause  at 
the  first  station,  and  the  arrival  of  fresh  passen 
gers,  gave  Lance  another  opportunity  of  return 
ing  to  the  window,  where  he  seated  himself 
opposite  his  new  acquaintance,  who  seemed 
to  attract  him.  He  appeared  to  have  no  fancy 
for  the  third  member  of  his  own  party,  —  the  old 
gentleman. 

"Is  he  your  grandfather?"  asked  Colopel 
Wolcott,  with  a  view  of  leading  to  the  question, 
Who  is  he  ? 

"No,  indeed.     He's  no  relation  at  all,  —  not 


HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND.  47 

my  uncle  or  anybody,"  replied  Lance.  "Mamma 
and  I  have  just  come  over  from  New  York.  He 's 
English.  Mamma  went  to  his  ugly  dark  office, 
in  London,  and  asked  him  to  come  with  us.  I 
wish  she  had  n't.  Do  you  like  him  ?  I  don't. 
I  wish  he  'd  stayed  away." 

"  Not  particularly,"  answered  the  colonel  dryly. 

"  I  'm  glad  of  that,"  said  Lance,  putting  his 
little  fist  confidingly  into  his  father's  hand. 

Passing  his  arm  around  the  boy,  whom  he 
drew  beside  his  knee  to  watch  the  English  land 
scape,  Colonel  Wolcott  pressed  him  to  his  heart, 
and  laid  his  cheek  down  lovingly  on  the  dark 
curls. 

"  Lancey,"  said  he  in  a  whisper,  "  do  you  some 
times  think  of  your  papa  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  replied  Lance,  also  in  an  undertone, 
and  with  a  glance  at  the  old  gentleman.  "  I  al 
ways  say,  '  God  bless  papa ! '  every  night  and 
morning.  Oh !  see  what  a  splendid  big  horse 
that  man  there  has  got." 

So  Adela  had  taught  her  child  to  breathe  his 
name  in  prayer  !  "  Frier  c'  est  dire  que  1'  on  aime," 
says  a  French  poet.  He  dared  not  take  for 
granted  so  much,  yet  surely  her  heart  must  be 
tender  towards  the  man  for  whom  she  taught  her 
little  son  to  pray. 

"  My  mamma,"  went  on  Lance,  after  the  big 
horse  had  been  left  a  mile  behind,  "says  that 


48  SALVAGE. 

maybe,  when  my  papa  was  in  danger  among  the 
Afghans,  —  she  read  about  it  to  me  in  a  book  he 
has  been  making,  —  my  little  prayer  may  have 
come  just  in  time  to  help  him.  Did  you  know 
about  that?  Did  he  tell  about  it  himself?  You 
were  there  at  the  same  time  with  him,  were  you 
not  ? " 

The  colonel  nodded,  but  was  silent,  —  silent 
as  a  convicted  Sadducee  might  have  found  him 
self  if  suddenly  brought  face  to  face  with  his  own 
guardian  angel. 

"  Well,  then,  please  tell  it  me  all  over  again.  I 
want  to  hear  it  very  much.  Mamma  does  not 
read  to  me  any  more  in  that  book.  She  says  she 
has  forgotten  all  it  tells  about.  When  I  was 
good  she  used  to  read  it  to  me  at  night,  but  since 
we  came  away  she  keeps  saying  she  has  forgot 
ten  ;  and  she  has  left  the  book  in  America.  She 
used  to  know  the  stories  all  by  heart  though 
before  we  came  to  England.  I  think  mamma  is 
growing  old.  Grandpapa  says  when  people  grow 
old  they  always  forget  things." 

Colonel  Wolcott  took  his  boy  upon  his  knee, 
and  in  a  low  voice  began  the  narrative  of  an  es 
cape  from  robbers  in  Central  Asia,  which  formed 
one  of  the  most  thrilling  chapter-s  in  his  book  of 
travels.  Lancey  sat  looking  in  his  face,  devour 
ing  every  word,  and  correcting  him  whenever  he 
deviated  in  any  point  from  the  printed  account. 


HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND.  49 

One  story  of  adventure  led  to  another.  The 
old  gentleman  leaned  over  and  evidently  whis 
pered  remonstrances  to  the  mother,  but  she  did 
not  call  away  her  child. 

By  degrees  the  motion  of  the  carriage,  the 
morning  of  excitement,  the  strain  on  his  attention, 
and  the  summer  heat,  overcame  the  little  fellow. 
He  dropped  asleep  upon  his  father's  breast.  The 
white-haired  gentleman  seemed  affronted  that  his 
words  had  no  effect.  He  became  silent,  and  wore 
the  air  of  a  person  who  washed  his  hands  of  the 
result,  whatever  it  might  be.  He  got  out,  with 
other  passengers,  to  refresh  himself,  at  Birming 
ham.  Adela  moved  to  the  seat  opposite  her 
child  and  husband. 

"He  tires  you,  I  am  afraid,"  she  said  gently, as 
she  did  so. 

"  Oh,  no  !  pray  permit  me,"  said  Colonel  Wol- 
cott  pleadingly.  He  almost  betrayed  himself  by 
the  earnestness  of  his  tones. 

"I  presume,"  she  said  nervously,  " that  I  ad 
dress  the  friend  of  Colonel  Wolcott,  Mr.  A.,  who 
was  with  him  in  his  imprisonment." 

Her  husband  bowed.  "  I  was  there,"  he  said 
indistinctly. 

But  Adela  was  too  nervous  to  observe  his  agi 
tation.  She  went  on  breathlessly :  "  I  have  a 
request  to  make  of  you.  You  may  think  it 
strange.  Perhaps  it  is  imprudent.  I  am  sure 
4 


50  SALVAGE. 


that  Mr.  Smith  would  not  approve.  But  I  think 
you  will  feel  for  me.  Colonel  Wolcott  is  now  on 
his  way  back  —  to  England.  Do  not  mention  to 
him  that  you  have  seen  us,  —  me  and  my  boy." 

"  Why  not  ? "  said  Colonel  Wolcott.  "  Surely, 
you  cannot  think  it  just  to  keep  a  father  from  all 
knowledge  of  his  own  child  ?  " 

"You  naturally  sympathize  with  your  friend. 
You  take  a  man's  view  of  the  situation.  How 
should  the  law  know  what  is  best  for  a  child  ? 
Mine  has  never,  since  he  was  born,  been  away 
from  me,  —  not  for  a  night.  Is  it  just  to  take 
him  from  me  now,  and  to  give  him  over  to  a  man 
who  has  never  written  to  us  since  his  birth, — 
who  has  never  taken  the  trouble  even  to  acknowl 
edge  him  ? " 

"Never  even  to  acknowledge  him?"  repeated 
Colonel  Wolcott,  in  a  low  voice.  It  was  the  pref 
ace  to  something  more  he  would  fain  have  asked. 
But  tears  were  gathering  in  Adela's  eyes.  She 
was  so  anxious  to  complete  what  she  wished  to 
say  herself  that  she  did  not  remark  the  interrup 
tion. 

"  Do  me  this  kindness,"  she  said.  "  Accident 
alone  has  made  us  meet.  Do  not  take  advantage 
of  it  to  bring  me  into  trouble.  I  only  ask  your 
silence  a  few  weeks.  I  ask  you  because  frank 
ness  seems  but  right  since  Lance  has  told  you 
who  we  are.  I  think  I  may  trust  you." 


HER  WEDDED  HUSBAND.  5 1 

"Yes,  you  may  trust  me,  and  have  no  fears. 
But,"  added  Colonel  Wolcott,  making  a  sudden 
decision,  "  may  I  take  it  on  myself  to  say  that 
when  your  husband  was  in  the  East,  and  long 
after,  he  knew  nothing  of  the  existence  of  this 
beautiful  boy  ?  You  must  remember  how  few 
letters  got  safely  through  the  lines  in  the  days  of 
the  Confederacy  —  " 

At  this  moment  the  other  passengers  who  had 
left  the  train  came  back  from  the  refreshment 
tables.  Adela  made  no  reply.  Colonel  Wolcott 
sank  back  into  his  seat,  with  his  boy's  head 
closely  pressed  against  his  bosom.  Soft  yearn 
ings,  such  as  he  had  never  before  felt,  were  stir 
ring  in  his  soul.  Instincts  that  he  had  not 
comprehended  were  making  themselves  felt 
within  him.  The  ice  and  snow  about  his  heart 
were  melting  into  fertilizing  drops  of  tender 
feeling. 

There  lay  the  boy  in  all  the  flush  and  rosiness 
of  health,  —  no  longer  a  mere  infant,  incompre 
hensible  and  uninteresting  to  a  bewildered  father, 
but  a  boy,  with  a  boy's  will,  a  boy's  thoughts,  a 
boy's  distinct  views  of  things  and  people  round 
him ;  a  boy  old  enough  to  be  moulded  by  a  double 
influence  into  gentle  manhood,  old  enough  to 
know  that  he  ought  to  have  two  parents,  —  to 
wonder  and  inquire  why  he  had  only  one. 

Colonel  Wolcott's   own  affections,  during  his 


52  SALVAGE. 


roving,  busy  life,  had  been  happily  unspoiled  by 
waste  or  desecration. 

"  He  sought 
(For  his  lost  heart  was  tender)  things  to  love." 

The  moist  curls  rested  on  his  breast  ;  the  lovely 
rounded  cheeks  and  dimpled  chin,  flushed  with 
the  midday  heat,  seemed  roses  lightly  touched 
with  summer  dew.  Lance  had  flung  one  arm 
across  his  new  friend  as  he  slept ;  one  little  hand 
clasped  the  lapel  of  his  coat.  It  was  an  attitude 
that  seemed  to  the  lone  man  as  an  appeal  for 
fatherhood  and  for  protection.  As  he  gazed 
down  with  delight  on  the  sweet  rosy  face,  it 
appeared  as  if  conspiring  angels  slowly  drew  him, 
conducted  him  home,  by  ardent  longings  for  pos 
session  of  the  child,  by  throbs  of  tender  yearning, 
towards  the  woman  who  had  borne  him. 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  $3 


CHAPTER  IV. 

HIS     WEDDED     WIFE. 

Her  even  carriage  is  as  far  from  coyness 

As  from  immodesty  .  .  . 

In  suffering  courtship,  in  requiting  kindness 

In  use  of  places,  hours,  and  companies, 

Free  as  the  sun  and  nothing  more  corrupted. 

As  circumspect  as  Cynthia  in  her  vows, 

As  constant  as  the  centre  to  observe  them. 

Truthful  and  bounteous  —  never  fierce  nor  dull  — 

In  all  her  courses  ever  at  the  full. 

CHAPMAN,  M.  d'  OLIVE. 

husband  and  wife  sat  opposite  to  each 
other  in  the  railway  carriage,  outwardly, 
visibly,  bodily  united  by  their  child,  a  living  link  ; 
invisibly  and  actually  set  asunder  by  a  chasm  in 
their  married  life  filled  by  bitter  memories, 
misconceptions,  misinterpretations,  and  unkind 
words,  like  other  fissures  in  which  lurk  poisonous 
and  dangerous  broods. 

Their  child  —  his  child  as  well  as  hers — lay 
with  his  dewy  curls  upon  his  father's  heart,  one 
sturdy  leg  thrown  up  upon  his  mother's  lap,  and 
all  the  time  she  talked  she  stroked  it  tenderly. 


54  SALVAGE. 


How  rarely,  under  ordinary  circumstances, 
husband  and  wife  converse  !  They  talk  together 
about  matters  of  mutual  concern  and  interest, 
discuss,  agree  or  disagree,  differ,  find  fault  or 
praise,  but  that  is  all.  It  seems  impossible  for 
partners  in  the  married  state,  unless  helped  out 
by  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  to  enjo);  be 
tween  themselves  the  pleasures  of  conversation. 
It  is  one  of  the  delights  of  courtship  that  married 
people  virtually  renounce  when  they  assume  the 
marriage  vows.  The  Frenchman  was  not  so  far 
wrong  who  complained  that  if  he  married  the 
lady  whom  it  had  been  his  chief  pleasure  to 
visit,  he  should  have  nowhere  to  spend  his 
leisure  time.  In  this  case  it  was  easier  for  the 
wife  to  talk,  who  had  not  yet  recognized  her  hus 
band,  than  for  the  husband,  conscious  that  the 
woman  whose  presence  was  now  agitating  his 
whole  being  was  the  wife  whom  he  had  so  lately 
been  minded  to  "put  away." 

They  had  taken  on  the  yoke  of  marriage  care 
lessly,  they  had  thrown  it  off  recklessly.  Each 
had  supposed  that  life,  after  they  parted,  would 
no  longer  be  influenced  by  their  discarded  vows ; 
each  had  forgotten  that  when  the  chain  uniting 
them  was  snapped,  its  broken  links  would  still 
cling  to  them.  The  man,  in  the  excitement  of 
war  and  travel,  had  ceased  to  feel  the  weight  of 
these  broken  fetters  until  he  returned,  older  and 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  55 

more  matured,  to  European  civilization  ;  but  the 
woman,  ripening  amid  the  checks  of  modern  life, 
and  acquiring  a  deeper  sense  of  the  obligations 
of  religion,  had  come  to  recognize  her  true  posi 
tion  :  across  the  gulf  her  spirit  had  been  yearn 
ing  towards  her  boy's  lost  father,  —  towards  the 
husband  in  whom  only,  as  a  Christian  woman, 
she  could  seek  the  completion  of  herself. 

Doubtless  they  had  come  together  under  a 
mistake,  but  they  were  wife  and  Jmsband.  That 
relation  was  as  fixed  as  if  they  had  been  parent 
and  child,  or  brother  and  sister.  Adela  fully  un 
derstood  what  many  wives  and  husbands  fail  to 
recognize,  that  once  married,  no  matter  how  the 
marriage  came  about,  there  is  no  going  behind 
the  marriage  vow,  no  release  from  the  marriage 
obligation. 

In  her  work-basket  at  home  lay  half  a  pair  of 
scissors.  The  scissors  had  been  part  of  the  fit 
tings  of  a  little  French  6tui  that  her  husband 
had  given  her  soon  after  their  marriage.  She 
kept  the  useless  fragment,  and  took  a  lesson  from 
it  daily.  She  looked  at  it  with  sympathy  and 
with  regret.  It  was  herself  in  symbol.  In  her 
day-dreams  she  had  long  thought  of  him  as  com 
ing  back  to  her  with  some  adaptation  of  the 
pleading  words  of  the  Prodigal,  when,  before  he 
could  utter  his  repentance,  she  would  have  fallen 
on  his  neck,  and  stifled  his  confession  with  her 
tears  and  kisses. 


5  6  SALVAGE. 


Instead  of  this,  his  lawyer  had  paid  a  visit  to 
her  father  in  business  hours,  to  state  that  "  he 
had  been  commissioned  by  Colonel  Wolcott  to 
take  steps  for  an  immediate,  and  they  hoped  an 
amicable,  dissolution  of  the  marriage." 

The  shock  was  terrible.  It  laid  waste  the 
sunny  garden  of  her  dreams.  It  made  even  her 
relations  with  her  child  a  matter  of  insecurity. 
Her  honor,  too,  and  her  good  name,  were  put  in 
peril.  In  a  divorce  suit,  what  might  not  lawyers 
say  of  her  ?  Above  all,  her  Christian  faith,  which 
had  been  growing  in  breadth,  fervency,  and 
knowledge,  was  brought  into  collision  with  her 
womanly  pride  -and  delicacy.  The  one  enjoined 
her  to  do  everything  to  defeat  the  intentions  of 
her  husband  ;  the  other  revolted  against  asserting 
any  legal  claims  upon  a  man  who  professed  pub 
licly  to  be  anxious  to  get  rid  of  her. 

Meantime  the  conversation  between  herself 
and  the  dark  stranger,  who  had  been,  as  she  be 
lieved,  imprisoned  in  the  Afghan  hill-fort  with 
her  husband,  flowed  on  agreeably.  She  was  de 
sirous  to  impress  him  favorably,  and  exerted  her 
self  to  please. 

This  was  not  difficult,  for  she  was  a  charming 
talker.  Circumstances  had  led  to  her  cultivating 
a  natural  gift  for  social  intercourse,  though  she 
had  never  cared  to  take  a  leading  part  in  fash 
ionable  society.  The  Wolcott  property  on  the 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE. 


North  River  had,  after  Mrs.  Wolcott's  death, 
been  purchased  by  a  well-known  American 
artist.  With  him  and  with  his  family  Adela  had 
lived  ever  since  on  terms  of  great  intimacy  and 
affection.  In  their  house,  during  the  summer 
and  autumn  months,  which  the  fierce  heat  of  the 
American  continent  converts  into  a  long  national 
holiday,  she  met  the  people  worthiest  to  be 
known  from  all  parts  of  America ;  a  class  who, 
joining  native  originality  to  European  culture, 
are  perhaps  the  most  delightful  companions  in 
the  world.  In  their  homes  their  work-a-day 
occupations  absorb  them ;  but  in  the  holiday 
life  of  the  summer  months  they  enjoy  leisure 
and  collect  inspiration  for  coming  literary  and 
artistic  campaigns.  Then  they  shake  off  their 
retired  habits,  live  gregariously,  and  are  the 
very  cream  of  intellectual  society,  with  a  sonp^on 
of  native  flavor  to  distinguish  them  from  culti 
vated  foreigners,  like  their  mongrel  geese,  wild 
turkeys,  celery-fed  canvas-backs,  and  prairie  hens. 
In  this  school  Adela  had  learned  to  listen  and 
to  talk,  and  to  exercise  a  subtile  influence  over 
men  of  cultivation.  Not  the  influence  of  a 
woman  caring  for  vain  homage, — for  she  was  free 
from  any  tinge  of  coquetry, — but  that  of  one  who, 
having  accepted  her  own  destiny  in  life,  cares 
not  to  discuss  it  or  to  question,  but  finds  a  chief 
interest  in  other  people,  and  delights  to  minister 


58  SALVAGE. 


to  the  amusement,  the  improvement,  and  the 
happiness  of  all  around  her. 

Wherever  Mrs.  Wolcott  went  she  was  wel 
comed,  and  the  certainty  of  giving  pleasure  breeds 
a  thousand  charms.  Men  liked  to  come  under 
her  influence.  She  generated  an  atmosphere 
more  full  of  oxygen  than  that  which  is  ordinarily 
breathed  in  good  society.  Good  men  found  in 
spiration  in  her  talk,  and  carried  back  her  influ 
ence  to  their  studios  and  libraries. 

To  please  was  her  aim  in  social  life, —  a  danger 
ous  aim,  of  course,  unless  we  restore  to  the  word 
"please"  its  rightful  meaning.  It  means,  not  "to 
attract  love,"  but  "  to  give  pleasure."  How 
charming,  how  invaluable  she  might  have  been 
to  society,  in  its  highest  sense,  had  she  occupied 
her  true  place  in  her  husband's  household  !  But 
fashionable  social  life  in  her  position  of  "  deserted 
wife"  was  painful  and  embarrassing,  and  she  was 
rarely  seen  except  in  the  limited  field  of  North 
River  summer  society. 

Thus  the  beautiful  woman,  with  soft,  short 
sighted  eyes,  and  clear,  bright  skin,  through 
which  the  warm  blood  showed  itself  in  sudden 
flushes,  was  no  novice  in  the  art  of  entertaining 
men ;  and  she  did  her  best  to  please  and  win  this 
stranger,  whom  she  supposed  might  have  influ 
ence  with  her  husband. 

He,  on  the  contrary,  was  glowing  with  excite- 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  59 

ment  and  suppressed  emotion  as  they  flew  past 
towns  and  lovely  landscapes,  gay  with  English 
green,  past  English  rectories  and  country-seats, 
nestling  in  trees  and  shrubbery,  past  peasants' 
cottages,  picturesque  and  full  of  rheumatism, 
through  Staffordshire,  where  fires  glint  and  shoot 
up  from  grimy  wastes,  and  Nature,  elsewhere 
prodigal,  disdains  to  aid  in  rectifying  the  ugliness 
which  man  has  made. 

At  a  junction  with  a  railroad  from  the  north, 
a  gentleman  got  into  their  carriage.  The  groom 
who  put  dressing-case  and  fishing-rod  in  after  him, 
touched  his  hat,  and  said,  "Good-bye,  Sir  George." 

After  a  while  he  joined  their  conversation, 
beginning  by  a  remark  to  Colonel  Wolcott  about 
"your  little  boy." 

Adela  made  no  objection  to  his  self-introduc 
tion.  She  and  her  companion  had  been  talking 
about  the  East.  Colonel  Wolcott  observed  that 
she  did  not  (like  Lance)  put  any  queries  about 
his  supposed  adventures  with  her  husband  ;  but 
he  found  her  well-informed  on  Eastern  customs, 
able  to  ask  intelligent  questions,  and  to  under 
stand  allusions.  They  spoke  of  travelling.  She 
was  an  inexperienced  traveller,  having  never  been 
abroad  before,  but  she  was  so  thoroughly  pre- 
fitted  to  be  one  of  those  to  whose  cultivated 
souls  all  Europe  would  become  "  a  lordly  pleasure- 
house,"  that  a  thrill  passed  through  his  heart  as 


60  SALVAGE. 

he  detected  in  himself  a  scheme  to  bribe  her  back 
by  offering  her  that  feast  of  delights  which  to  an 
American  of  cultivated  tastes  is  found  in  journey 
ing  at  leisure  in  the  Old  World. 

After  a  time  the  conversation  drifted  to  Amer 
ica,  whither  it  seemed  Sir  George  was  also  bound, 
having  a  passage  engaged  in  the  Crimea.  To 
Colonel  Wolcott's  astonishment,  he  heard  his  wife 
discussing  American  politics  with  a  thorough 
appreciation  of  the  details  of  the  war,  the  condi 
tion  of  the  South,  and  the  future  policy  to  be 
pursued  towards  it. 

"You  will  be  surprised,"  she  said  to  the  Eng 
lishman,  "  to  find  so  few  traces  of  popular  exulta 
tion  at  the  North  over  its  victory.  There  is  no 
disposition  to  be  vainglorious.  The  triumphs  of 
the  war  were  hard-won  and  very  costly ;  but, 
politics  apart,  there  is  an  almost  universal  na 
tional  disposition  to  shake  hands  and  be  friends." 

"  Did  you  see  anything  of  the  war  while  it  was 
going  on  ? "  said  the  young  Englishman. 

"  I  had  no  personal  experience  of  actual  war 
fare,"  she  replied,  "  but  there  was  war  in  every 
breath  we  drew,  and  perpetual  war  excitement  in 
our  cities,  —  the  movement  of  troops,  the  pro 
curement  of  substitutes,  the  regulation  of  hospi 
tals,  the  trains  of  sick  and  wounded,  families 
bereaved,  the  women  constantly  at  work  for  the 
Sanitary  Commission..  I  had  a  good  deal  to  do 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  6 1 

with  the  Elmira  and  Fort  Delaware  prisoners, 
however,  particularly  Georgians,  from  whom  I 
used  to  receive  a  dozen  or  more  letters  every  day. 
They  addressed  me  always  as  '  Dear  Aunt '  or 
'  Dear  Cousin,'  not  being  permitted  to  corre 
spond  with  any  one  not  related  to  them  ;  but 
the  United  States  commanding  officers  winked 
at  such  temporary  relationships.  I  supplied  their 
wants,  from  'a  prayer-book,  Monte  Cristo,  and 
a  bottle  of  Sozodont,' — requested  by  one  young 
dandy,  —  to  loaves  of  soft  bread,  chewing  tobacco, 
Bologna  sausages,  cheese,  cast-off  clothing,  old 
novels,  periodicals,  and  religious  literature." 

She  went  on  to  relate  some  amusing  ex 
periences  in  her  intercourse  with  her  "  cousins  " 
in  the  rebel  army,  adding,  "  Permission  to  write 
letters  was  a  very  great  boon  to  them.  Men 
who  had  not  handled  a  pen  for  years  embraced 
every  opportunity  of  writing  half  a  sheet  to  some 
body.  They  used  to  send  us  tokens  of  their 
gratitude,  —  fans  carved  out  of  shingles,  watch- 
chains  made  from  knitting-pins,  and  black  rings 
made  out  of  their  gutta-percha  buttons." 

She  drew  off  one  as  she  spoke,  to  show  it  to 
Sir  George ;  and  Colonel  Wolcott  saw,  with  satis 
faction  and  delight,  that  it  was  worn  as  the  guard 
of  her  wedding  ring. 

He  sat  by  almost  silent,  and  watched  her  as  she 
talked  to  the  young  Englishman.  He  dared  not, 


62  SALVAGE. 

of  course,  exhibit  any  knowledge  of  the  war  or 
of  the  Southern  Confederacy.  Was  it  for  his 
sake  that  she,  all  those  years,  had  been  good  to 
the  rebel  prisoners?  Had  she  identified  herself 
with  those  from  his  own  State,  had  she  provided 
for  them  for  his  sake,  corresponded  with  them, 
while  he  had  only  thought  of  her  as  a  "  Union- 
shrieking"  virago  ? 

His  impulse  was  to  fall  down  at  her  knees,  to 
sue  for  forgiveness,  to  humble  himself;  to  do  any 
other  insane  thing  ;  but  here  little  Lance  roused 
up,  and  struggled  to  look  out  of  the  window. 

The  train  was  running  at  full  speed.  It  was 
afternoon.  They  had  just  passed  the  great  via 
duct,  a  few  miles  out  of  Manchester.  There  was 
a  sudden  jerk,  and  a  quick  tremor  ran  through 
all  the  train.  The  carriage  gave  three  bounds, 
a  drag,  a  snap,  and  was  off  the  rails.  It  had 
broken  its  coupling.  The  passengers  were 
'thrown  forward.  A  shrill  shriek  came  from  little 
Lance,  a  prayer  from  the  lips  of  his  mother. 
But  the  danger  and  the  shock  were  over  together. 
Everybody  scrambled  back  into  his  seat,  and 
looked  for  explanation  into  his  neighbor's  eyes. 
In  the  crash  Adela  Wolcott  had  been  thrown 
forward,  with  her  head  upon  the  shoulder  of  her 
husband.  Even  in  that  supreme  moment  it  had 
thrilled  him  to  have  her  lying  for  an  instant  on 
his  breast.  But  Lance's  cries  recalled  him  to 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  63 

himself,  and  Adela  recovered  her  seat  without 
perceiving  his  emotion. 

Lancey's  face  had  been  ba^lu  cut  by  the  broken 
window-glass.  He  had  a  gasn  across  his  pretty 
upper  lip,  another  on  his  forehead.  His  mother 
turned  as  pale  as  death.  She  gathered  her  boy 
into  her  arms,  while  Colonel  VVolcott  endeav 
ored  to  pick  away  the  morsels  of  glass  which 
adhered  to  the  two  gashes. 

"  Don 't  cry,  my  boy  ! "  he  said.  "  See  how  your 
crying  distresses  poor  mamma." 

Lance  looked  up  into  his  mother's  face,  and 
bravely  tried  to  check  his  sobs,  while  blood  ran 
over  his  pretty  velvet  dress,  and  his  little  arms 
clung  to  his  mother's  neck  with  a  convulsive 
strain. 

Colonel  Wolcott,  as  soon  as  he  could  get  a 
guard  to  let  him  out,  sprang  from  the  train,  and 
brought  water  in  his  hat  from  a  pool  near  them. 
He  felt  indignant  with  Sir  George  for  unwarrant 
able  interference  with  his  privileges,  when  he 
found,  on  coming  back,  that  he  had  opened  his 
dressing-case  and  produced  some  toilette  essence, 
with  which  Adela  was  already  washing  the 
wounds. 

"  Cold  water  is  much  the  best  for  it,"  he  said, 
with  authority  in  his  voice,  though  he  knew  noth 
ing  about  the  matter.  She  assented.  Together 
they  proceeded  to  wash  and  dress  the  face  of 
their  little  boy. 


64  SALVAGE. 

"  Perhaps  there  is  a  surgeon  on  the  train,"  said 
Colonel  Wolcott,  looking  at  good-natured  Sir 
George,  who  immediately  set  out  in  quest  of  one. 
He  found  a  medical  student,  who  drew  together 
the  cuts  with  some  plaster  from  his  pocket-book, 
and  put  a  bandage  of  handkerchiefs  over  the 
child's  forehead. 

"  Will  it  make  him  ill,  doctor  ? "  said  Adela, 
with  anxious  eyes. 

"  Oh,  no  !  A  trifle  feverish  for  a  few  days, 
perhaps,  but  a  little  care  will  set  him  all  to 
rights.  Let  the  wounds  heal  by  first  intention." 

And  the  doctor  departed  to  the  wounded  in 
other  carriages,  who  really  needed  his  profes 
sional  skill. 

Sir  George,  too,  disappeared,  to  be  of  use  if 
possible.  Not  so,  however,  the  old  gentleman. 
He  had  been  sulky  all  the  journey,  and  had  taken 
no  part  in  the  conversation.  He  seemed  to  have 
some  mistrust  of  Mrs.  Wolcott,  and  to  feel  it  his 
duty  never  to  lose  sight  of  her  or  of  her  son. 
But  for  his  presence,  Colonel  Wolcott  might- have 
broken  his  resolution  to  avoid  all  explanation 
with  his  wife  until  they  met  on  shipboard. 

Adela,  however,  no  longer  seemed  mindful  of 
his  presence,  or  of  things  around  her.  She  said 
that  she  had  not  been  hurt,  but  she  seemed 
stunned,  and  drew  forth  several  anxious  questions 
from  her  escort.  Alarmed,  surprised,  discomfited, 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  65 

she  sat  silent,  for  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion 
she  had  recognized  her  husband.  His  hat  had 
been  taken  off  to  bring  water  from  the  pool. 
Ke  had  stood  close  to  her.  She  knew  him  by 
his  brow,  his  eyes,  his  hands,  an  ornament  on 
his  watch-chain,  by  a  green  seal-ring  on  one  of 
his  fingers.  Her  nerves  were  in  no  state  to  bear 
another  shock.  She  kept  thinking  of  the  warn 
ings  of  Mr.  Smith,  and  reproaching  herself  for 
not  having  left  the  train  at  Birmingham,  as  he 
desired.  And  now  that  the  accident  had  roused 
her  fears  for  Lance,  a  worse  danger  than  a  rail 
way  smash  had  opened  upon  her  like  a  masked 
battery.  It  was  a  danger  brought  upon  them  by 
her  own  imprudence.  The  mother-heart  within 
her  conjured  up  visions  of  all  possible  difficulties 
and  disasters  which  might  arise  out  of  the  com 
plication.  She  reproached  herself  with  having 
delivered  her  child  into  the  hands  of  his  enemy  ; 
with  having  compassed,  almost  plotted,  his  sepa 
ration  from  herself.  Her  motherhood  had  placed 
her  in  unnatural  relations  with  her  husband.  For 
a  while  her  sole  thought  was  that  the  catastro 
phe,  from  which  for  years  she  had  prayed  hourly 
for  deliverance,  had  fallen  unawares  upon  her. 

What  would  he  do  next  ?     He  had  said  very 

little,  she  now  remembered  with  a  pang,  during 

their    conversation.     The    animation    had   been 

chiefly  hers.     Yet   he  had  surely  said,  "  Trust 

5 


66  SALVAGE. 


me  "  ;  he  had  told  Lance  not  to  cry,  because  his 
crying  "distressed  poor  mamma"  ;  he  had  taken 
care  to  let  her  know  that  he  had  been  ignorant 
of  the  child's  birth. 

Nevertheless,  she  could  not  control  her  appre 
hensions.  Terrified  and  excited,  she  remembered 
that  he  had  occupied  himself  almost  wholly  about 
Lance.  Was  she,  then,  nothing  but  the  wife 
whom  he  was  anxious  to  divorce,  —  the  woman 
who,  in  the  hour  of  his  humiliation,  had  sided  with 
her  family  ?  The  tables  were  now  turned.  He 
had  the  upper  hand  with  her.  The  powers  of 
the  law  were  in  his  favor.  She  had  expected  to 
confront  his  power  in  America,  and  had  brought 
her  boy  to  England  to  place  him  beyond  reach 
of  any  judicial  decision.  Her  own  imprudence 
had  thrown  the  child  into  the  very  hands  from 
which  she  hoped  to  save  him. 

Before  this  anguish  passed,  another  wave  of 
bitterness  swelled  over  her. 

Lancey,  with  the  customary  self-absorption  of 
a  child,  felt  it  to  be  his  right,  since  he  was  hurt, 
to  be  humored  by  everybody.  He  took  a  whim 
to  change  his  place  from  his  mother's  arms  to 
those  of  the  stranger. 

"  He  holds  me  best,"  he  fretted.  "  I  want  to 
go  to  him.  You  press  me  up  too  tight,  mamma." 

On  hearing  this,  the  flattered  father  took  back 
his  wounded  child,  unconscious  of  the  pang  that 
wrung  the  heart  of  the  deserted  mother. 


HIS   WEDDED   WIFE.  6/ 

"  He  is  glad  to  go  !     He  is  glad  to  leave  me  ! 

0  God  !     I  never  expected  this !  "  she  thought. 
"  I  always  thought  his  little  heart  would  break. 

1  had  fancied  he  would  cling  to  me  as  the  poor 
Dauphin    did   to    Marie    Antoinette,   and    that 
they  would  have  to  force  him  from  his  mother. 
He  goes  of  his  own  accord !     This  is  tdo  bitter, 
O  my  God!" 

Her  own  exclamation,  "  O  my  God  !  "  brought 
her  thoughts  back  to  patience  and  prayer.  It 
would  not  do  to  part  with  trust  and  confidence 
in  God,  her  only  friend,  and  to  drift  off,  without 
hold  or  hope,  she  knew  not  where. 

So  little  Lancey  lay  before  her  hungry,  eager 
eyes,  and  cooed  his  confidences  into  the  ear  of 
his  strange  father,  played  with  his  watch-chain, 
stroked  his  beard,  and  permitted  his  caresses ; 
while  in  his  mother's  heart  rang  a  verse  out  of 
Isaiah,  —  a  verse  of  which  she  had  never  thought 
before,  but  which  now  seemed  "driven  in  upon 
her":  "Two  things  have  come  upon  thee  in  one 
day :  loss  of  children,  and  widowhood.  Who 
shall  be  sorry  for  thee  ? " 

Should  she  pray  that  her  own  death  might 
leave  them  to  each  other  ?  Should  she  break 
the  commandment  women  hold  most  sacred,  and 
give  up  opposition  to  his  wish  for  a  divorce  from 
her  ?  Must  she  consent  to  let  him  make  a  second 
marriage  ?  Her  treatment  had  driven  him  to 


68  SALVAGE. 

court  "  battle,  and  murder,  and  sudden  death,"  in 
savage  lands.  Had  she  not  better  now  make  up 
to  him  for  what  he  had  for  nine  long  years 
suffered  because  of  her  ? 

At  this  moment  she  perceived  that  he  was  un 
obtrusively  making  some  small  arrangements 
with  the  shawls  and  bags  for  her  comfort.  She 
lifted  up  her  eyes  and  fixed  them  for  the  first 
time  on  his  face ;  for  the  gloom  of  the  twilight 
made  it  almost  dark  now  in  the  carriage.  As 
she  scanned  his  features,  thoughts  of  the  pride 
that  she  had  felt  in  his  manly  beauty  during 
her  few  brief,  happy  days  of  courtship  and  of 
hope,  rushed  like  a  flood  over  her  memory.  Of 
late  years  he  had  occupied  a  little  shrine  set  up 
in  her  secret  heart,  where  she  had  worshipped 
him,  at  first  with  repentance  and  with  pity,  but 
recently,  under  the  influence  of  his  book,  with 
that  enthusiasm  with  which  women  bow  down 
before  heroes. 

Some  of  the  travellers  on  the  train  had  left 
their  carriages,  and  were  walking  beside  the 
track.  One  of  them,  an  elderly  man,  dressed  like 
a  clergyman,  stopped  at  their  window  as  he 
passed. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Wolcott ! — you  here?  I  had  no 
idea  you  were  in  England.  How  long  since  you 
left  home  ? " 

"  Not  long,  doctor." 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  6$ 

"  Going  back  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  hope  in  the  Crimea  ?  " 

Her  answer  was  inaudible  to  Colonel  Wolcott, 
but  he  heard  the  doctor  say  something  about 
"  other  passengers."  At  that  she  leaned  out  of 
the  window  and  asked  him  a  question.  The 
doctor  answered  it  by  turning  towards  a  group 
of  people  who  were  talking  with  loud  voices  at 
the  door  of  another  carriage. 

"  Yes,  indeed ;  she  is  going  with  us.  You 
know  Mrs.  Tontine,  of  course  ;  or  shall  I  intro 
duce  her  to  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  we  shall  meet  on  board.  I  know  her 
very  well,"  said  Adela. 

"  Can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  Who  is  with 
you  ?  I  suppose  you  are  not  travelling  alone  ?  " 

"  No  ;  Mr.  Smith,  my  lawyer,  from  London,  is 
taking  care  of  me." 

The  doctor  lifted  his  hat,  and  walked  on. 

After  a  little  pause,  Adela  addressed  her.  hus 
band  for  the  first  time  since  she  had  discovered 
him. 

"  Are  you  going  to  America  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  in  the  Crimea." 

She  held  her  peace.  If  that  were  so,  one 
anxiety  was  over.  He  would  not  probably  at 
tempt  to  take  her  boy  from  her  before  they  sailed, 
even  if  he  had  made  arrangements  to  get  posses- 


70  SALVAGE. 

, 


sion  of  him  as  soon  as  they  should  be  in  Amer 
ican  waters.  "  The  slaves  of  the  law "  might 
come  in  the  pilot-boat  to  "  rend  him  away  "  from 
her,  at  Sandy  Hook.  She  did  not  know  the 
ways  of  American  jurisprudence,  and  all  dangers 
are  most  terrible  when  we  meet  them  in  the 
dark.  Nor  did  Mr.  Smith  know  much  about 
United  States  law.  Probably  he  could  not  have 
answered  her,  had  she  been  willing  to  lay  before 
him  her  consciousness  of  being  out  of  her  depth  in 
a  new  sea  of  troubles.  He  had  already  admonished 
her  about  holding  any  intercourse  with  a  gentle 
man  who  was  Colonel  Wolcott's  friend.  What 
would  he  now  say  if  she  confessed  she  had  com 
mitted  herself  to  her  husband  ?  She  had  taken 
her  own  way,  and  naturally  dreaded  to  let  him 
know  the  mistake  into  which  it  had  landed  her. 

But  Cora  Noble — Mrs.  Tontine — was  she 
going  home  in  the  Crimea  ?  Above  all,  was  it 
by  collusion  ?  At  this  thought,  all  pity  for  her 
husband,  all  desire  of  self-effacement,  fell  away 
from  her. 

"  If  it  is  to  be  a  contest  between  her  and  me," 
she  thought,  "  if  he  has  to  make  a  choice  again 
between  us,  —  I  accept  the  challenge!  I  have 
God  upon  my  side,  and  my  claims  as  the  joint 
parent  of  his  son.  I  will  make  my  child  all  safe 
before  we  leave  England ;  and  then,  God  help 
me  !  God  defend  the  right !  I  feel  as  if  I  were 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE. 


drawing  a  sword,  and  crying,  'Dieu  et  mon 
droit  !  '  as  I  go  into  the  battle." 

They  remained  two  hours  on  the  spot  where 
the  accident  had  taken  place,  and  little  further 
passed  between  the  wife  and  husband.  To  watch 
her  was  to  Colonel  Wolcott  less  embarrassing  than 
to  converse  with  her.  What  the  nature  of  the 
accident  was  that  detained  them,  he  never  in 
quired.  At  last  they  were  transferred  to  another 
train,  and,  after  a  good  many  brief  delays,  reached 
Liverpool  about  nightfall. 

The  young  surgeon,  on  their  arrival  at  the  sta 
tion,  came  to  the  door  of  the  carriage  to  inquire 
after  his  little  patient.  Colonel  Wolcott  had  the 
satisfaction  of  privately  pressing  a  fee  into  his 
hand,  whispering,  "This  is  for  my  son";  and 
heard  Adela  ask  him  the  address  of  the  principal 
physician  in  Liverpool. 

When  they  got  out  of  the  train,  he  entreated 
her  permission  still  to  carry  Lance.  It  was 
granted  ;  but  the  mother  walked  beside  him,  hold 
ing  the  skirt  of  her  child's  little  coat,  as  though 
she  dared  not  trust  him  quite  out  of  her  hands. 

Mr.  Smith  found  a  hackney  coach,  and  assisted 
Mrs.  Wolcott  to  enter  it.  Colonel  Wolcott 
pressed  a  last  kiss  on  his  boy's  forehead,  and 
then  laid  him  on  the  knees  of  his  mother.  He 
heard  the  order  given  to  drive  to  the  house  of 
an  eminent  Liverpool  practitioner. 


72  SALVAGE. 


Cut  off  from  all  expression  of  an  anxiety  as 
legitimate  as  was  her  own  for  the  welfare  of  their 
child,  Colonel  Wolcott  ran  back  into  the  station, 
collected  his  own  traps  and  belongings,  got  into 
a  cab,  and  ordered  it  also  to  drive  to  the  house 
of  the  surgeon.  There  he  waited  in  the  street 
till  the  hall-door  reopened,  and  Adela,  with  her 
veil  over  her  face,  came  out,  supported  by  Mr. 
Smith,  and  leading  little  Lancey  by  the  hand. 
She  started  when  she  perceived  her  husband  on 
the  doorstep,  and  he  thought  that  both  she  and 
her  elderly  guardian  looked  confused  as  well  as 
annoyed. 

"  I  waited,"  he  said  pleadingly,  "  to  hear  what 
the  doctor  said  of  Lance.  If  you  will  let  me 
know,  I  shall  be  deeply  obliged  to  you.  Will  it 
be  long  before  it  gets  well  ?  Will  it  leave  a 
scar  ?  " 

"  He  thinks  very  little  of  the  cuts.  He  says 
they  will  soon  heal,"  she  said  hurriedly,  as  she 
passed  him.  "  Thank  you,  and  good  night." 

In  a  few  moments  they  were  in  their  carriage. 
He  watched  it  as  it  rattled  along  the  silent  street, 
and  felt  more  lonely  than  he  had  ever  felt  before. 
He  ordered  the  cab  to  drive  to  the  office  of  the 
Blue  Crescent  Line  of  steamers,  hoping  to  make 
arrangements  for  his  passage  in  the  Crimea. 
The  office  had  been  closed  for  some  hours. 

"Could  he  get  on  board  the  Crimea?"  he 
asked. 


HIS  WEDDED  WIFE.  73 

"  Not  until  the  morning  ;  she  was  in  the  stream 
off  Birkenhead." 

There  was  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  drive  to  a 
hotel  and  go  to  bed,  —  a  very  different  man  from 
the  lion  /;/  posse  of  the  London  season,  who, 
twenty-four  hours  before,  had  congratulated  him 
self  upon  his  freedom  from  family  incumbrances, 
and  on  being  "  light-hearted  and  content,"  like  a 
homeless  Arab. 

All  night  he  tossed  in  uneasy  slumbers.  Sleep 
ing  or  waking,  he  was  haunted  by  one  vision,  — 
a  woman,  sad  and  beautiful,  with  that  firm  step 
by  which  his  eyes  had  been  first  struck  when  he 
saw  her  on  the  platform  of  the  station.  "A  per 
fect  woman,  nobly  planned,"  were  words  that 
rang  their  changes  in  his  memory.  This  was  no 
woman  of  worldly  proclivities,  as  he  had  always 
fancied  his  wife  to  be,  no  fashionable  lady,  ener 
vated  by  busy  idleness  or  by  aimless  efforts 
at  activity,  but  a  creature  "  nobly  planned," 
with  vigor,  self-possession,  and  the  beauty  of 
strength.  Yet  there  was  delicacy  and  refinement 
in  each  outline  and  curve  of  her  expressive  face, 
showing  that  heart  and  mind  were  in  harmony 
with  her  physical  organization. 

Sometimes  during  that  uneasy  night  he  saw 
her  pleading  with  him  not  to  take  away  her 
child.  Once  in  his  dreams  he  clasped  her  to  his 
heart,  and  she  melted  like  a  snow-wraith.  Once 


74  SALVAGE. 


he  was  floating  out  to  sea,  stretching  his  arms 
towards  her.  At  times  he  saw  her  face,  and  saw 
her  turn  it  from  him  with  repulsion.  Again  she 
sank  into  his  arms  and  yielded  herself  up  to  his 
embrace,  and  all  was  rapture.  And  then,  across 
these  visions  bathed  with  golden  light,  passed  a 
dark  cloud  of  vulgarizing  thoughts.  He  beheld 
himself,  with  proud  disgust,  in  the  character  of  a 
ruined  Southern  gentleman,  repairing  his  broken 
fortunes  with  his  father-in-law's  wealth,  —  and 
all  was  dark  once  more. 


THE  TENDER.  75 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    TENDER. 

See  how  yon  flaming  herald  treads 

The  ridged  and  rolling  waves, 
As,  crashing  o'er  their  crested  heads, 

She  bows  her  surly  slaves ! 
With  foam  before  and  fire  behind 

She  rends  the  clinging  sea, 
That  flies  before  the  roaring  wind 

Beneath  her  hissing  lee. 
With  flashing  wheel,  with  lifted  keel, 

And  smoking  torch  on  high, 
When  winds  are  loud  and  billows  reel, 

She  thunders  foaming  by. 

O.  W.  HOLMES. 

r  ["'HE  morning  proved  foggy  and  overcast,  as 
•*•  are  seven  eighths  of  the  mornings  in  the 
gray  city  of  Liverpool.  Colonel  Wolcott  roused 
himself  from  troubled,  unrefreshing  sleep,  with 
a  feeling  that  the  hopes  and  desires  which  had 
seemed  to  him  most  secure  were  shaken  to  their 
centre.  He  had  an  oppressive  sense  of  the 
strange  change  in  his  own  wishes  and  position. 
At  his  last  waking  he  had  plumed  himself  upon 
his  independence :  now  he  woke,  like  Gulliver, 
invisibly  but  closely  tied.  He  was  a  lover,  "lost 
could  he  not  win  "  ;  a  husband  and  a  father,  with- 


76  SALVAGE. 

out  claim  to  wife  or  child.  Possibilities  of  every 
kind  lay  broad  before  him.  His  courage  was 
good,  his  will  strong,  and  his  purpose  plain ;  be 
sides  which,  though  self-reliant  in  some  ways,  he 
possessed  that  natural  humility  which,  because  it 
will  sacrifice  anything  short  of  self-respect  to  gain 
its  purpose,  is  the  strongest  element  in  success,— 
a  foundation  upon  which  good  fortune  may  be 
securely  built. 

At  an  early  hour  he  applied  at  the  Blue  Cres 
cent  office  for  a  passage  on  board  the  Crimea, 
which  was  to  sail  at  noon  that  day. 

"  Impossible.  Every  berth  is  taken.  A  party 
from  New  York  engaged  every  vacant  state-room 
two  days  ago." 

"  I  must  go  in  the  Crimea,"  cried  Colonel  Wol- 
cott.  "  Can  you  tell  me  of  any  one  likely  to  sell 
me  his  ticket  for  this  passage  ? " 

Before  the  clerk  could  answer,  a  man  rushed 
into  the  office,  stout-built,  sandy-haired,  and  pur 
ple  with  anxiety  and  hurry. 

"  Can  I  give  up  my  berth  in  the  Crimea  ? " 

"  We  never  return  passage-money." 

"  I  have  got  a  round-trip  ticket.  I  want  to 
exchange  my  passage  back  for  a  berth  in  the 
Bulgaria." 

"  What  name  ?  " 

"Joseph  Dobson." 

"Well,  Mr.  Dobson,  we  might  do  it  in  that 
case  ;  but  there  is  a  difference  to  pay." 


THE  TENDER.  77 


"How  much?" 

"  Five  pounds.  Shall  I  book  you  by  the  Bul 
garia  ? " 

"  If  you  please.  Here 's  my  ticket  and  your 
five  pounds.  It's  a  good  deal,  though." 

The  clerk  deliberately  wrote  out  another  card, 
regardless  of  the  impatience  of  the  two  men  who 
stood  before  him,  and,  when  he  had  watched 
Dobson  out  of  the  office,  turned- to  the  colonel. 

"You  are  in  luck,"  handing  him  the  ticket. 
"  Mr.  Dobson  has  a  very  good  berth,  near  the 
companion.  What  name  shall  I  say  ? " 

"  No  matter,"  said  the  colonel.  "  No  need  to 
alter  the  ship's  manifest.  I  can  travel  very  well 
as  Joseph  Dobson." 

"  As  you  please.  The  tender  starts  precisely 
at  ten  with  mails  and  passengers." 

As  Colonel  Wolcott  left  the  office  he  met 
Captain  Moore  of  the  Crimea  coming  in. 

"  Are  all  my  papers  right  ?  All  ready  for  me 
this  morning  ? " 

"  Yes,  Captain.  It 's  a  fine  season  of  the  year 
for  you  to  cross  in.  You  will  make  one  of  your 
quick  runs." 

"  Yes  ;  if  the  machinery  will  bear  full  pressure. 
I  am  a  little  anxious  this  trip  about  the  machin 
ery.  Let  me  see,  to-day  is  the  6th  of  June:  you 
will  see  me  back  here  this  day  month,  if  all  goes 
well." 


78  SALVAGE. 

"There's  a  fellow,  Captain,  on  the  passenger 
list,  travelling  under  a  false  name,  with  an  enor 
mous  black  beard.  You  had  best  have  a  sharp 
eye  on  him.  He  sails  as  Joseph  Dobson,  and  has 
got  one  of  the  berths  on  the  port  side  aft,  near 
the  companion." 

"  What  kind  of  man  is  he  ?  " 

"  Tall  —  all  black,  eyes  and  beard.  Some 
thing  foreign  or  Jewish  about  him,  may  be  a 
Mississippi  gambler.  Too  much  hair  about  his 
face  for  a  gentleman." 

"I'll  look  out  for  him.  Thank  you.  I  don't 
want  to  load  the  ship  with  that  kind  of  black 
cattle." 

How  circumstances  alter  cases  !  At  the  Min 
ister's  entertainment,  two  nights  before,  Colo 
nel  Wolcott's  oriental  beard  had  been  the  envy 
of  the  men  and  the  admiration  of  the  women. 

He  was  by  this  time  on  board  the  tender  which 
was  lying  at  the  Crimea's  wharf,  waiting  for  mails 
and  passengers.  Soon  the  little  tug  became 
crowded.  The  scene  was  one  of  lively  bustle. 
Huge  trunks  were  being  hoisted  in.  Gay  par 
ties,  homeward  bound,  were  in  high  spirits. 
Commercial  travellers,  accustomed  to  the  trip, 
felt  a  sort  of  proprietorship  as  their  feet  quitted 
the  shore-plank,  and  cheerfully  made  themselves 
at  home  on  passing  through  the  gangway. 

In  some  groups  there  were  tearful  partings. 


THE  TENDER.  79 


There  were  beloved  ones  spending  together  their 
last  moments,  with  hearts  too  full  to  make  the 
boon  of  any  value,  never  to  meet  again,  had  they 
but  known  their  fate,  until  that  "  time  of  the  res 
titution  of  all  things,"  when  parting  shall  be  one 
of  the  trials  that  is  forever  done  away  ;  there 
were  Mark  Tapleys,  striving  to  be  "jolly " ; 
women,  with  their  hearts  oozing  from  swollen 
eyelids  ;  gay  girls,  in  smart  travelling  costumes, 
initiating  the  flirtations  of  the  voyage  ;  mothers 
of  families,  careful  and  troubled  about  many 
things;  fathers  in  chase  of  luggage;  children 
in  mischief;  wonderment  and  mirth,  bustle  and 
hurry,  everywhere,  and  universal  unmindfulness 
of  the  approaching  horrors  of  a  "chopping  sea." 

All  the  Americans  had  an  air  of  being  at  home 
on  board  the  tender.  The  English,  although  not 
yet  out  of  their  own  port,  already  seemed  like 
foreigners.  Had  not  every  American  on  board 
made  at  least  one  ocean  voyage  ?  Crossing  the 
ocean  is  a  thing  of  such  every-day  experience  to 
an  American,  either  in  his  own  person  or  in  that 
of  those  about  him,  that  it  is  robbed  of  half  its 
terrors.  "We  fear  and  hate  the  utterly  un 
known,"  says  Canon  Kingsley,  "and  that  only." 
The  leading  interests  of  daily  life  in  America 
are  connected  with  the  Atlantic  Ocean.  There 
it  is  regarded  as  a  link — by  an  Englishman  as  a 
separation.  The  ocean  is  the  highway  which 


80  SALVAGE. 


brings  everything  most  delightful  to  an  Ameri 
can's  home.  It  is  not  to  him,  as  to  the  English 
man,  a  waste  of  waters  parting  him  from  his 
associations,  cutting  him  off  from  all  he  holds  of 
interest  in  the  world.  An  American's  news,  let 
ters,  books,  clothes,  prima  donnas,  fashions,  an 
cestors,  and  church  associations,  all  come  to  him 
from  across  seas,  while  to  an  English  traveller 
the  voyage  seems  like  cutting  adrift  from  civiliza 
tion,  to  venture,  Columbus-like,  into  an  unknown 
world. 

The  colonel,  standing  near  the  gangway, 
watched  every  one  who  came  on  board,  but  saw 
nothing  of  his  wife  or  of  her  boy.  He  had  been 
into  the  cabins  ;  he  had  explored  dim  corners 
of  the  little  vessel ;  he  had  even  visited  the 
engine-room,  on  the  presumption  that  the  intelli 
gence  of  the  child  might  have  made  him  curious 
about  machinery.  He  examined  all  the  faces  in 
the  crowd,  but  saw  no  signs  of  Lance  or  of  Adela. 

At  last,  just  as  the  shore-plank  was  about  to 
be  drawn  in,  a  carriage  drove  rapidly  to  the 
wharf.  The  old  gentleman  of  the  railroad  train 
alighted.  A  stout  man,  who  had  been  pointed 
out  to  Colonel  Wolcott  as  Captain  Moore  of  the 
Crimea,  shook  hands  with  him,  and  assisted  him 
in  helping  out  Adela.  The  three  crossed  the 
plank.  No  boy  was  with  them.  Adela,  closely 
veiled,  was  sobbing  bitterly. 


THE  TENDER.  8 1 


"  Good  heavens  ! "  cried  her  husband.  "  She 
has  left  him  behind  !  She  must  have  come  over 
to  England  to  hide  him  from  me  !  " 

For  one  moment  he  was  moved  to  rush  up  to 
her,  to  grasp  her  arm,  to  whisper  "Adela!" — to 
claim  her,  to  implore  her  to  forgive  the  past, 
take  him  back,  be  his  wife  once  more.  "Then," 
he  reflected  in  sudden  excitement,  "  we  might 
disembark  at  Queenstown,  reclaim  the  child,  go 
on  to  the  Continent,  and  begin  the  honeymoon 
of  our  true  marriage  ! " 

But  then  other  thoughts  arose.  "  Until  the 
proceeds  of  my  book  come  in  I  have  very  little 
money,"  he  told  himself.  "  I  should  be  simply 
an  adventurer,  living  upon  her  father's  purse, — 
her  father,  whom  I  despise.  Who  knows  if  we 
are  not  divorced  already  ?  Who  knows  in  what 
relation  we  are  now  standing  to  each  other  ? 
Why  did  I  not  telegraph  to  Deane  last  night  for 
information  ?  She  has  left  Lance  behind,  she 
thinks  she  has  made  him  safe.  Her  one  idea  is 
to  get  rid  of  me,  and  hold  on  to  our  child.  She 
shall  have  him  !  God  bless  her  !  Shall  I  tell  her 
so  at  once  ?  How  can  I,  in  this  terrible  confu 
sion  ?  No  man  upon  earth  would  dare  to  risk  his 
chance  in  such  a  crowd,  or  could  plead  with  any 
justice  to  himself.  No!"  he  continued,  repeat 
ing  a  Mohammedan  proverb,  "  '  Deliberation  is 
of  God,  haste  is  of  the  devil.'  I  will  trust  to 
6 


82  SALVAGE. 


the  chances  of  ship  life,  when  we  are  together  on 
board." 

All  this  time  the  puffing  tender  was  plunging 
towards  the  black  hull  of  the  leviathan  which  lay 
in  the  stream,  her  vast  bulk  swaying  up  and  down 
•with  the  indolent,  dull  heaving  of  the  tide,  while 
watery  sunshine  gleamed  faintly  through  the 
mist,  and  began  to  light  up  the  smart  gilt-work 
which  has  usurped  in  naval  art  the  place  of  the 
time-honored  figure-head. 

Old  Mr.  Smith  was  standing  guard  over 
Adela.  Her  husband  drew  as  near  her  as  he 
could,  and  listened,  with  an  echoing  groan  from 
his  own  heart,  to  the  muffled  sobs  which  told  her 
misery. 

The  lawyer,  however,  made  him  a  sign  to  draw 
apart,  as  a  little  crowd  of  gay  Americans  closed 
in  around  Adela,  to  look  over  her  head  on  the 
port  side  of  the  boat,  and  take  a  view  of  the 
Crimea. 

"  Sir,"  he  began,  "  I  do  not  know  your  name,"  — 
Colonel  Wolcott  bowed,  but  did  not,  as  the 
other  hoped,  supply  the  deficiency,  —  "I  am 
head  of  a  London  law  firm,  employed  by  Mrs. 
Wolcott's  lawyer  in  New  York  to  advise  and 
assist  her  while  she  remains  in  England. 
You  are  aware,  I  presume,  that  a  divorce  suit 
is  pending  between  her  husband  and  herself. 
I  deem  it  important  that  he  should  not  be  fully 


THE  TENDER.  83 


informed  of  her  movements  for  the  present.  It 
is  much  to  be  regretted  that  yesterday  she  was 
betrayed  by  nn  enfant  terrible,  —  her  little  boy." 

"  He  has  done  her  no  harm  with  me,  sir,"  said 
Colonel  VVolcott.  "  I  do  not  see  the  child  on 
board.  Has  she  left  him  in  Liverpool  ?  " 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  the  law 
yer,  evading  any  answer  to  his  question.  "  In 
the  name  of  humanity,  sir,  have  pity  on  the  poor 
woman.  The  man  who  takes  her  child  from 
her  would  be  more  cruel,  it  seems  to  me,  than 
those  coarse  brutes  brought  up  every  day  at  our 
police  courts  for  cruelty  to  women.  A  lady  of 
her  feelings  and  condition  might  have  the  life 
knocked  out  of  her  by  such  a  blow.  It  seems  to 
me  that,  if  you  see  your  friend,  you  would  do  well 
to  advise  him  to  arrange  the  matter  quietly;  or, 
better  still,  to  reconsider  it.  Are  you  going  back 
with  us  in  the  tender  ? " 

Here  the  crowd  pressed  them  apart  again,  and 
no  time  was  left  for  further  remarks  or  explana 
tions.  The  tender  was  under  the  shadow  of  the 
mighty  hull,  and  was  being  laid  alongside  of  the 
Crimea. 

Colonel  Wolcott  had  only  the  opportunity  to 
say,  "  I  am  an  American,  and  am  making  the 
voyage  —  " 

"An  American  !  I  thought  you  were  A ,  the 

Englishman  in  his  book.  You  met  him,  did  you 
not,  in  that  hill  fort  of  Cashmere  ? " 


84  SALVAGE. 

"  I  was  born  in  America.  Tell  her  that  in 
everything  I  shall  consult  her  wishes  — 

Here  the  crowd  parted  them.  The  ladder  was 
lowered,  the  ropes  manned.  Passengers  and 
their  friends  began  to  swarm  up  the  black  side 
of  the  great  ocean-going  steamer. 

Colonel  Wolcott  kept  beside  his  wife,  but  she 
did  not  even  see  the  hand  he  offered  her.  She 
was  overwhelmed  by  her  great  grief,  and  with 
that  grief  was  mingled  at  that  moment  a  strain  of 
bitterness  against  the  man  whose  cruel  hand  had 
dealt  such  a  blow.  ,  She  went  down  to  her  own 
state-room  at  once,  escorted  by  the  captain  and 
the  elderly  stranger. 

Colonel  Wolcott,  as  in  a  dream,  watched  the 
confusion  round  him.  He  saw  partings  in  hot 
haste,  and  heard  brave  words  of  "  Godspeed " 
and  "  good  courage."  The  colored  stewards  stood 
in  their  exhibition  jackets  round  the  gangway, 
the  officers  in  their  smart,  gold-banded  caps. 
There  was  an  outcry  about  one  of  Mrs.  Tontine's 
trunks,  which  had  been  lowered  into  the  hold 
through  a  mistake ;  but  he  connected  no  mem 
ories  at  that  moment  with  Mrs.  Tontine.  His 
thoughts  were  with  the  mother  of  his  child,  who 
was  sobbing  her  heart  out  under  his  feet  in  the 
largest  and  most  expensive  cabin  in  the  boat, 
called  on  board  the  Bridal  State-room. 

The  great  bell  rung.    Those  for  the  shore  were 


THE  TENDER.  85 


warned  to  leave  the  vessel.  As  the  old  lawyer 
passed  through  the  gangway,  blowing  his  nose, 
Colonel  Wolcott  stopped  him. 

"  Excuse  me.  Tell  me,  is  she  already  di 
vorced  ? " 

"  I  cannot  say.  She  may  be,  American  pro 
ceedings  are  so  rapid.  Allow  me  to  say,  sir, 
that  I  think  American  facilities  of  that  nature 
infamous ! " 

And  with  these  words  he  went  over  the  side  of 
the  vessel. 

The  ship  drew  in  her  breath.  The  final  order 
was  given.  Round  went  the  steam-capstan  till 
the  anchor  was  hove  up,  a  sail  or  two  was  set, 
her  smoke  streamed  like  a  giant's  feathers.  The 
great  steamship  moved  majestically  down  the 
Mersey.  Little  Lance  was  left  behind. 

Colonel  Wolcott,  on  the  guards,  was  roughly 
pushed  about,  requested  to  stand  aside,  ordered 
this  way  and  that,  as  he  stood,  inattentive  to 
things  round  him,  gazing  shoreward  at  the 
heights  crowned  by  suburban  villas  on  the  edge 
of  Liverpool. 

The  wind  was  getting  fresh  and  the  boat  began 
to  roll. 

Alone  with  her  grief,  in  the  big  state-room, 
looking  shoreward  at  one  of  those  villas  where 
her  boy  remained  behind,  stood  the  other  be 
reaved  parent. 


86  SALVAGE. 

The  ship's  dog,  a  setter,  of  the  Gordon  breed, 
black  touched  with  tan,  had,  ever  since  the 
colonel  came  on  board,  dogged  his  steps,  looking 
wistfully  into  his  face  and  nestling  its  nose  into 
his  fingers ;  but  Colonel  Wolcott,  though  ordina 
rily  the  friend  of  animals,  was  in  no  humor  to 
notice  him.  He  was  thinking  of  the  last  words  of 
the  English  lawyer,  and  cursing  the  wickedness 
of  those  state  laws  which  tempt  uneasy  married 
people  to  discontent,  by  holding  out  to  them  a 
knife  with  which  to  cut  the  bonds  of  matrimony, 
when  probably,  if  never  led  into  temptation  by 
the  offer  of  that  knife,  they  might  easily  have 
accustomed  themselves  to  the  temporary  galling 
and  discontent  which  inevitably  accompanies 
the  wearing  of  a  new  and  unfamiliar  obligation. 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  8/ 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LIFE    AT    SEA. 

I  find  the  sea  life  an  acquired  taste,  like  that  for  tomatoes  and  olives. 
The  confusion,  cold,  motion,  noise,  and  odors  are  not  to  be  dispensed 
with.  Nobody  likes  to  be  treated  ignominiously,  upset,  shoved  against 
the  side  of  the  house,  rolled  over,  suffocated  with  bilge,  mephitis,  and 
stewing  oil.  R.  W.  EMERSON. 


'"T^HE  remainder  of  the  day  was  passed  by  the 
-*-  little  world  in  the  Crimea  in  getting  every 
thing  "  ship-shape  and  Bristol  fashion,"  and  in 
settling  the  preliminaries  of  social  intercourse 
during  the  voyage.  The  passengers  were  grow 
ing  practically  familiar  with  their  strange  entou 
rage  and  with  each  other's  faces. 

For  some  reason,  never  made  clear  to  the 
uninitiated,  the  great  ship  slacked  her  speed 
when  fairly  in  the  Irish  Sea,  and  at  last  came  to 
a  dead  stop  for  several  hours.  The  stewardess 
told  the  ladies  that  the  engineer  was  oiling  the 
machinery,  the  officers  invented  other  nonsense 
for  inquisitive  male  passengers,  —  the  truth  being 
that  the  machinery  was  not  in  good  order.  It 
had  been  examined  in  Liverpool  and  pronounced 


88  SALVAGE. 

competent  for  the  voyage,  but  it  was  advised  that 
the  Crimea  should  go  into  dock  immediately  on 
her  arrival  at  New  York,  and  be  thoroughly  over 
hauled  by  the  workmen  of  the  company. 

All  this,  however,  was  not  known  beyond  the 
engine-room,  excepting  to  the  captain  and^  chief 
officer;  but  it  became  evident  to  any  one  capable 
of  calculation  that  the  ship,  due  at  Queenstown 
in  about  eighteen  hours,  would  not  be  off  the 
Cove  of  Cork  till  late  in  the  afternoon  of  the  next 
day,  Sunday. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  did  not  engage  my  passage  in 
the  Cunard  Line,"  said  one  of  the  passengers. 

"  If  a  voyage  begins  unlucky  it  will  end  so," 
said  another. 

"  It  is  unluckier  to  turn  back,"  was  the  an 
swer. 

"And  this  trouble  is  not  one  of  any  conse 
quence.  It  is  only  a  little  bolt,  the  engineer 
says,  that  is  out  of  order." 

"She's  an  American  ship,  and  her  owners  can 
overhaul  her  much  cheaper  in  New  York,  pro 
vided  they  can  patch  her  up  to  run  this  voyage." 

"  Who  owns  her  ? " 

"Well,  a  company.  Old  Peter  Engels  is 
president.  They  say  he  owns  about  half  the 
shares." 

"  Then  we  may  feel  ourselves  quite  safe :  his 
only  daughter  is  on  board." 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  89 


"  Moore  is  a  very  careful  captain.  I  should 
feel  perfectly  secure  with  him  at  any  time." 

"  And  the  Crimea  is  a  first-class  boat,  though 
old-fashioned  in  her  accommodations.  I  Ve  made 
three  voyages  in  her." 

Such  was  some  of  the  talk  circulating  that 
afternoon  in  the  smoking-room  and  the  saloon  of 
the  steamer.  Once  on  board,  it  is  a  matter  of 
loyalty  to  put  faith  in  the  captain  and  the  vessel. 
Those  who  had  experience  remembered  how  safe 
previous  voyages  had  been  ;  those  who  had  none, 
supposed  that  to  worry  about  the  safety  of  the 
ship  was  part  of  the  customary  disquietude  of 
a  sea-voyage. 

Meantime  the  captain,  officers,  and  engineers 
were  really  anxious,  though  they  reassured  every 
body  and  made  light  of  the  delay.  They,  how 
ever,  considered  the  ship  perfectly  safe,  and 
apprehended  nothing  worse  than  a  little  extra 
trouble  and  detention  on  the  voyage. 

At  dinner  Colonel  Wolcott  discovered  that  his 
place  as  Joseph  Dobson  was  far  removed  from  the 
seats  of  the  aristocracy,  who  ate  their  meat  at 
the  captain's  table.  His  wife's  seat,  though  now 
vacant,  was  beside  the  captain's  chair,  for — as 
daughter  of  Mr.  Engels,  and  travelling  by  herself 
—  she  was  in  an  especial  manner  under  his  pro 
tection.  At  the  captain's  table,  too,  were  Mrs. 
Tontine  and  her  party.  He  had  leisure  now  to 


90  SALVAGE. 

notice  his  old  flame.  How  changed  since  he  had 
seen  her !  Was  it  possible  that  he  ever  could 
have  wasted  passion,  hope,  happiness,  upon  that 
ill-bred,  fussy,  faded  woman,  who  seemed  to  have 
retained  nothing  of  her  former  self  but  her 
worldliness,  her  unmodulated  voice,  her  love  of 
being  conspicuous  at  any  price,  and  of  attracting 
the  attention  of  every  male  creature  who  came 
in  her  way  ? 

She  had  an  English  governess  in  her  train,  and 
an  over-dressed,  sallow  little  girl,  about  the  age 
of  Lance, —  a  child  devoid  of  every  charm  which 
we  associate  with  the  idea  of  childhood.  No 
tender  reminiscence  of  baby  days  clung  or  could 
cling  to  her  pinched  little  features  and  pert, 
aggressive  manner.  Those  lips  could  never  have 
cooed  music,  one  would  think,  even  to  a  parent's 
ears,  those  hands  never  have  bestowed  endearing 
baby  pats,  nor  those  sallow  cheeks  invited  kisses. 
Her  earliest  utterances  must  have  been  queru 
lous,  impatient  screams  ;  her  first  thoughts  have 
been  lisped,  not  in  the  sweet,  imperfect  nouns 
and  verbs  of  infancy,  but  in  vulgar,  wilful,  un 
pardonable  bad  English. 

Colonel  Wolcott  looked  at  her  with  a  bitter 
kind  of  scorn,  —  a  swelling  of  the  heart,  such  as 
mothers  often  feel  when,  comparing  their  own 
fledglings  with  alien  broods,  they  thank  Heaven 
for  not  having  given  them  that  other  woman's 
child. 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  9 1 


From  the  remote  table  at  the  further  end  of 
saloon,  at  which  fate  and  the  head  steward  had 
consigned  him  to  the  society  of  commis-voya- 
genrs  and  bag-men,  the  colonel  could  watch  what 
went  on  at  the  table  of  the  captain,  and  observe 
the  flirtations  of  "  that  Tontine  widow,"  as  she 
was  called  by  some  of  the  people  round  him,  who 
had  made  a  previous  passage  in  her  company. 
She  must  have  been  a  widow  for  some  time,  for 
her  grief  was  passing  off  into  black  silk  and 
bugles  and  an  infinitude  of  cr$pe  lisse. 

As  to  the  child, —  Harrie  they  called  her, — 
Colonel  Wolcott  thought  he  had  never  seen 
anything  so  disagreeable,  forward,  impertinent, 
and  intolerable.  He  was  positively  relieved 
when  the  roll  of  the  vessel  proved  too  much  for 
her,  and  she  and  her  governess  disappeared  from 
table. 

As  Joseph  Dobson,  he  found  himself  saddled 
in  his  state-room  by  a  chum,  —  a  lad  of  sixteen, 
shipped  by  his  friends  to  the  United  States,  to 
make  his  way  to  fortune  if  he  could,  or  (far  more 
probably)  to  perish  at  the  outset,  in  some  New 
York  hospital,  of  friendlessness  and  dissipation. 

He  was  desperately  sea-sick,  in  that  stage  of 
the  ignominious  malady  when  the  patient  is  furi 
ous  with  himself  for  ever  coming  to  sea,  and 
would  give  all  he  owns  to  behold  a  reef  or  hear 
a  breaker.  Every  other  moment  he  kept  implor- 


92  SALVAGE. 

ing  "  somebody "  to  fling  him  overboard,  that 
somebody  being  generally  a  low-bred,  loud  ac 
quaintance  made  in  the  smoking-room,  who 
stepped  in  now  and  then  to  see  how  he  got  on, 
and  to  administer  brandy-and-soda  and  sarcastic 
observations.  Neptune  had  overlooked  his  or 
ganism  as  yet,  and  he  met  his  friend's  deplorable 
entreaties  with  a  laugh,  offering  to  get  the  stew 
ard  to  bring  him  a  Welsh  rabbit,  a  slice  of  fried 
ham,  or  a  box  of  sardines, —  brutal  propositions, 
at  which  the  victim  groaned. 

The  Crimea  was  again  upon  her  way,  but  the 
swell  had  sent  every  lady  to  her  cabin,  except 
the  very  few  who,  under  the  influence  of  evil 
advice  as  to  "  fresh  air,"  and  "  keeping  the  deck 
bravely,"  were  expending  endurance  worthy  of 
a  better  cause  in  making  themselves  objects  of 
loathing,  misery,  and  aversion  to  other  people. 

There  are  certain  afflictions  of  the  human  sys 
tem,  cruel  and  powerful  afflictions  too,  which 
never  assume  the  dignity  of  suffering.  They 
might  be  called  the  comic  maladies  which  flesh 
is  heir  to,  were  it  not  impossible  to  associate  the 
word  "comic"  with  any  kind  of  suffering. 

The  rancid  smells  of  smoke  and  "stewing  oil" 
make  the  quarter-deck  of  a  steamship,  whenever 
the  wind  is  at  all  against  her,  almost  intolerable; 
and  steamers,  besides  the  roll  common  to  ships 
at  sea,  have  a  tremulous,  unrhythmic  jar  from 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  93 


their  machinery,  which  to  some  people  is  more 
trying  than  the  ordinary  pitch  and  toss  of  a  labor 
ing  vessel.  Still,  who,  in  the  present' quarter  of 
the  nineteenth  century,  would  take  his  passage 
in  a  sailing  ship  instead  of  a  steamer  ?  Some 
thing  is  due  to  the  civilization  we  live  under,  and 
that  civilization  precludes  sails. 

Colonel  Wolcott,  just  off  a  sea-voyage,  and 
not  constitutionally  disposed  to  sea-sickness, 
walked  the  wet  decks,  and  thought  over  his  situa 
tion.  The  Crimea  seemed  to  be  steaming  past 
"  the  land  of  fog  and  mist."  A  darkness  that 
could  be  felt  was  settling  down  upon  them. 
There  was  a  dismal  drip  from  every  yard  and 
sail,  and  each  far-off  fog-bell  on  the  coast  was 
answered  by  a  horrible  steam-shriek,  as  if  the 
mighty  creature  were  in  pain  or  peril. 

Foggy  and  chilly  as  it  was,  two  ladies,  after 
dark,  stole  out  on  deck,  and  Captain  Moore,  after 
some  protests,  made  them  comfortable  in  a  little 
cubby-house,  appropriated  to  his  own  use,  on 
the  poop,  where  he  worked  his  observations,  and 
kept  various  little  private  matters,  —  liqueurs, 
extra  fine  cognac,  cigars,  the  medicine-chest, 
photographs  of  those  he  loved  at  home,  his 
books,  and  a  few  papers. 

Colonel  Wolcott  was  on  the  guards  outside, 
where  the  ship's  dog,  a  creature  privileged  to 
wander  at  will  about  the  decks,  still  kept  him 


94  SALVAGE. 


company ;  and  as  the  ladies  talked  with  un 
modulated  voices,  and  took  no  precautions  against 
being  overheard,  he  did  not  feel  himself  obliged 
to  leave  his  sheltered  corner,  out  of  reach  of  the 
spray  and  drip,  in  order  to  be  beyond  the  sound 
of  their  conversation. 

"  They  say  we  stopped  because  both  wind  and 
tide  were  dead  against  the  ship,"  said  one  of 
them,  who  piqued  herself  on  being  a  good  sailor. 
"  I  thought  it  was  all  nonsense  about  oiling  the 
machinery.  The  captain  says  we  shall  not  be  off 
Queenstown  till  to-morrow  afternoon." 

"  Well,"  said  the  other,  accepting  the  wind  and 
tide  theory,  "  I  am  not  sorry  myself  for  the  delay. 
Did  you  ever  land  at  Queenstown  ? " 

"  Yes  ;  it  is  lovely  in  its  green,  you  know,  — 
very  Irish  and  rural,  with  a  bright-blue,  beauti 
ful  bay." 

"  Poor  Mrs.  Wolcott  is  dreadfully  annoyed  at 
the  delay,"  said  the  first  speaker.  "  She  is  wild 
to  get  home  to  New  York  and  to  see  about  that 
divorce  suit  with  her  husband.  I  never  saw  a 
woman  so  cut  up  as  she  is  about  leaving  her 
little  boy.  I  went  into  her  state-room,  after  dark, 
and  found  her  lying  dressed  upon  her  bed,  still 
sobbing  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  That 's  a 
beautiful  room  she  has,  that  bridal  state-room,— 
much  too  big  for  a  woman  travelling  by  herself. 
However,  Mr.  Engels  engaged  it  for  the  round 
trip.  He  has  plenty  of  money." 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  95 


"  Yes  ;  the  Engels  can  afford  anything,"  re 
plied  the  other. 

"  What  do  you  know,"  said  the  other  voice, 
"  about  Adela  Wolcott  and  her  husband  ?  They 
write  me  word  she  is  going,  to  spare  no  expense 
to  prevent  his  getting  the  divorce  ;  but  he,  it 
seems,  insists  on  being  rid  of  her.  She  won't 
hear  of  a  compromise,  nor  of  an  amicable  ar 
rangement,  which  was  what  he  proposed  to 
them  through  my  Uncle  Deane.  Aunt  Deane 
writes  me  that  she  means  to  defend  the  suit,  and 
I  suppose  she  brought  her  boy  over  to  England 
to  put  him  out  of  his  father's  reach  if  it  should 
go  against  her." 

"  So  that 's  what  sent  her  out  so  mysteriously 
on  the  last  trip  of  the  Crimea  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  she  would  not  even  bring  a  maid  with 
her.  Her  object  was  to  cover  up  her  tracks,  and 
you  can't  keep  a  maid  from  talking,  you  know. 
I  never  saw  a  woman  so  bound  up  in  a  child  as 
Adela  Wolcott  is  in  that  little  fellow.  She 
brought  him  to  Newport,  when  we  were  all  there 
last  summer,  because  he  had  had  measles  or  some 
thing.  They  stayed  in  the  same  house  with  us 
for  a  week  or  two.  There  was  a  bishop  there 
who  used  to  quote  something  about  her  life  being 
bound  up  in  the  bundle  of  life  with  that  of  her 
child.  I  declare,  I  do  believe  that  she  will  die  if 
his  father  takes  him  from  her.  Why  can't  that 


96  SALVAGE. 

Wolcott  come  home  after  his  travels,  and  live 
respectably,  like  other  people  ?  He  could  not 
find  a  better  wife  than  Adela,  and  he  certainly 
won't  if  he  gets  the  one  they  say  he  wants." 

"  I  don't  believe  that  any  judge  would  consent 
to  let  him  have  the  child  if  he  were  made  to  un 
derstand  that  its  father  is  going  to  marry  a 
woman  like  that,"  was  the  answer. 

"  There  is  no  knowing  what  the  law  won't  do," 
said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  "  nor  a  man  either,  for  the  mat 
ter  of  that,  if  his  wife  goes  against  him.  I  told 
Adela  just  now  that  she  had  better  give  up  and 
make  an  amicable  arrangement,  as  he  told  my 
uncle  to  propose  to  her.  Then  she  might  stipu 
late  to  keep  the  child,  —  a  compromise,  you 
know.  But  she  flew  out  at  me  with  her  religious 
notions.  '  My  dear,'  I  said,  '  that  may  be  all  very 
proper,  and  I  respect  the  prayer  book  and  the 
marriage  service  as  much  as  you  do ;  but  I  Ve 
got  some  of  the  old  Adam  in  me,  —  and  before 
I  'd  cling  to  a  man  who  wanted  to  shake  me  off 
and  to  take  up  with  such  a  flirt  as  Cora  Noble, 
Mrs.  Tontine  — '  " 

Colonel  Wolcott's  start  at  this  speech  pre 
vented  his  hearing  its  conclusion,  but  he  heard 
the  answer. 

"  May  be  there 's  not  a  word  of  truth  in  what 
is  said  about  that,  after  all.  It  would  be  quite 
like  Cora  Tontine  to  set  such  a  report  in  circula- 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  97 


tion.  I  formed  a  very  high  opinion  of  Colonel 
Wolcott  from  his  book.  However,  you  never  do 
know  a  man's  real  points  until  you  see  his  deal 
ings  with  women.  If  Colonel  Wolcott  can  be 
base  enough  and  foolish  enough  to  divorce  his 
wife  in  order  to  take  up  with  that  flaunting 
widow,  he  deserves  what  he  is  safe  to  get,  and 
nobody  need  pity  him." 

"  You  know,  I  suppose,  that  she  was  his  first 
love,  before  her  marriage,  when  she  was  Cora 
Noble,  and  jilted  him  for  old  Tontine.  There 
was  a  great  fuss  over  it  at  the  time.  Then  he 
married  Adela  Engels  for  her  money,  and  turned 
rabid  secesh,  swore  he  would  n't  live  under  the 
Stripes  and  Stars  ;  and  when  she  refused  to  go 
with  him  to  Richmond,  through  the  rebel  lines, 
he  deserted  her.  After  the  war,  he  went  off  to 
the  East  Indies,  without  writing  her  one  line,  or 
taking  any  notice  of  the  birth  of  his  little  boy. 
The  first  news  she  had  from  him,  except  his 
book,  was  through  a  letter  from  Constantinople, 
sent  to  my  Uncle  Deane,  requesting  him  to  get 
up  a  case  for  an  Indiana  divorce." 

"  Have  you  heard  Mrs.  Tontine  say  that  she 
wrote  to  Colonel  Wolcott  as  soon  as  his  book 
came  out,  and  that  the  next  thing  she  heard  was 
that  he  was  arranging  for  this  divorce  ?  —  which 
leaves  it  to  be  inferred  that  he  is  ridding  himself 
of  his  wife  to  marry  her." 
7 


98  SALVAGE. 

"  Who  told  you  so  ?  " 

"Why,  she  did.  That  is,  as  we  say,  she  'kind 
of  did,'  you  know.  She  's  been  talking  to  me 
half  the  afternoon,  in  her  state-room.  It  is  next 
to  Adela  Wolcott's,  and  she  kept  her  door  open, 
on  purpose,  I  think.  I  tried  to  stop  her  once 
or  twice,  but  it  was  impossible.  I  have  little 
doubt  Mrs.  Wolcott  heard  every  word." 

"There  is  nothing  that  Mrs.  Tontine  would 
like  better,  I  imagine,  than  to  worry  her  rival. 
Well,  shall  we  go  in  ?  This  fog  is  taking  all  the 
starch  out  of  my  clothes  ;  and  before  I  go  to  bed 
myself,  I  want  to  see  Adela,  and  get  her  to  un 
dress,  poor  dear !  and  drink  a  cup  of  tea.  She 
told  me  that  she  felt  so  lost  and  lonesome  in  that 
big  room  by  herself.  When  she  came  out,  she 
had  her  little  boy.  You  see,  —  " 

"  And  this  is  what  I  have  brought  her  to  ! " 
cried  Adela  Wolcott's  husband  to  himself,  as  the 
gossips  descended  the  companion.  "  Alone  on 
this  steamer,  unfriended  ;  pitied,  discussed,  and 
patronized  by  two  such  women !  And  yet  it 
might  have  been  a  great  deal  worse.  Their  sym 
pathy  was  all  for  her,  their  blame  for  me.  They 
took  her  part.  They  were  not  unkindly.  Cora 
Noble  !  Cora  Tontine  !  How  dare  that  detest 
able  woman  proclaim  herself  a  rival  to  my  wife, 
and  couple  her  name  with  mine  ?  Thank  Heaven, 
if  she  did  write  to  me,  I  never  had  her  letter. 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  99 


And  Adela,  —  if  she  has  heard  such  stuff,  what 
must  she  think  of  me  ?  Divorce  !  What  devil 
made  me  think  about  divorce  ?  The  only  thing 
that  put  it  into  my  head  was  the  idea  that  it  was 
an  easy  thing  to  get  in  Indiana.  We  had  made 
a  terrible  mistake,  as  it  seemed,  in  marrying 
at  all,  and  I  supposed  she  would  be  as  glad  as  I 
to  dissolve  the  bond  and  be  at  liberty.  I  never 
dreamed  of  doing  her  a  wrong.  I  did  not  under 
stand  marriage.  We  were  both  going  to  be 
just  where  we  should  have  been  if  we  had  never 
met,  as  I  imagined.  I  should  be  glad  to  be  inde 
pendent  of  her  family,  and  she  to  be  freed  from  a 
Southerner  whose  principles  she  despised.  There 
was  a  certain  pride  in  giving  up  her  wealth,  and 
she  did  not  care  for  me,  I  told  myself,  and  I 
should  be  free  to  choose  again,  or  live  '  a  youth 
light-hearted  and  content,'  as  I  might  prefer.  I 
forgot  how  much  I  could  never  give  her  back. 
I  see  it  now.  In  marriage  there  is  no  equality 
between  man  and  woman.  The  bridegroom  re 
ceives  more  than  he  bestows  upon  his  bride,  and 
if  he  breaks  the  bond,  he  leaves  —  a  ruin  !  " 

He  had  been  walking  rapidly  up  and  down  in 
the  excitement  of  these  thoughts,  and  now  paused 
beside  the  bulwark  to  look  over  the  ship's  side 
into  the  heaving  water.  The  night  was  foggy 
and  starless,  with  only  a  sharp  gleam  of  waver 
ing,  silvery  light  upon  the  wake,  under  the  lights 
of  the  steamer. 


100  SALVAGE. 

"  No  wonder,"  he  resumed,  "  that  she  has 
thrown  away  my  picture ;  no  wonder  that  she 
will  not  mention  me  to  Lance.  In  what  way 
shall  I  begin  to  make  her  understand  that  it  was 
.not  unruly  passion,  nor  treachery  such  as  those 
women  hinted  at,  that  prompted  me  to  propose 
divorce,  but  actual  thoughtless  ignorance  and 
want  of  consideration  ?  I  never  saw  till  now  that 
in  divorce  the  liberty  so-called  is  all  the  man's,  — 
the  whole  weight  of  the  broken  chain  is  carried 
by  the  woman." 

He  took  a  few  more  restless  turns  upon  the 
deck,  and  then  paused  for  another  look  over  the 
quarter. 

"  My  hopes  seem  just  like  that"  he  said,  look 
ing  down  into  the  troubled  sea,  and  unconsciously 
repeating  the  experience  of  all  true  lovers. 

With  that  he  ascended  to  the  hurricane-deck, 
on  the  roof  of  the  saloon,  where  he  found  several 
officers,  to  whom,  as  he  perceived  at  once,  he 
was  an  object  of  observation  and  suspicion.  He 
heard  one  man  whisper  to  another, — 

"  I  told  you  so.  You  see,  the  dog  knows 
what  he  is.  From  the  moment  that  he  came  on 
board  he  has  had  an  eye  upon  him. 

"  You  have  grown  a  long  beard  in  the  past  two 
weeks,  since  you  came  over  with  us  last  voy 
age,  Mr.  Dobson,"  was  the  remark  of  the  third 
officer. 


LIFE  AT  SEA.  IOI 


"Dobson,"  thought  Colonel  Wolcott,  "  is  proba 
bly  a  commercial  gent,  who  crosses  and  recrosses 
in  the  Crimea.  Doubtless  he  is  well  known  to 
every  one  on  board  of  her.  It  would  be,  there 
fore,  impossible  to  pass  myself  off  for  him." 

"  I  presume  I  have  also  changed  the  color  of 
my  beard,  and  grown  a  foot  taller,  sir,"  he  said, 
"  if  I  may  judge  by  what  I  saw  of  Mr.  Dobson  in 
Liverpool.  I  purchased  his  ticket  at  the  last 
moment,  and  with  it,  I  presume,  the  right  to  use 
his  name.  At  any  rate,  you  will  find  me  booked 
as  Dobson  on  the  manifest.  How  soon  do  you 
expect  that  we  shall  be  off  Queenstown  ? " 


102  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

CHURCH    AT    SEA. 

And  hard  till  then,  and  selfish,  I 
Was  thenceforth  naught  but  sanctity 
And  service. 

PROCTOR,  Faithful  Forever. 

'THHE  false  Dobson  was  greatly  surprised  at 
-*-  breakfast  the  next  morning  to  hear  himself 
addressed  as  "Mas'  Lancelot"  by  one  of  the  col 
ored  waiters.  He  gave  the  man  a  quick  look, 
which  imposed  silence,  and,  after  the  meal  was 
over,  sought  him  in  his  pantry. 

"  Why,  Mas'  Lancelot,  does  n't  you  know 
Mel  —  Melchizedeck  Quin  ?  Me  an'  you 's  been 
coon-huntin'  an'  possum-treein'  an'  giggin'  eels 
an'settin'  lines  an'  diggin'  after  muskrats,  menny's 
an'  menny's  an'  menny's  a  night,  upon  de  ole  plan 
tation.  Laws,  Mas'  Lancelot,  don'  tell  now  you 's 
forgotten  Mel,  nor  dat  ar'  black  Gordon  pup 
you  's  broke  —  las'  month  six  years  —  when  you 
was  hidin'  in  ole  Blacksmith  Harry's  cabin  ?  De 
ole  pup  has  been  a  smellin'  and  a  whinin'  roun' 


CHUR  CH  A  T  SEA .  103 

your  legs  ebber  sence  you  corned  aboard.  'Pears 
like  he  don'  know  what  makes  of  you.  Specs  he 
thinks  you  an'  me  an'  him  'd  be  right  glad  to  be 
back  upon  de  ole  plantation.  Law  sakes  !  how 
dem  Union  soldiers  done  come  'long  an'  swep' 
up  all  de  dogs !  Did  n't  leave  a  sheep's  dog  nor 
a  watch  dog  nor  a  huntin'  dog  on  de  ole  place, 
'ceps  jus'  dis  pup,  'cos  I  done  hid  him  — jus'  cos 
you  done  broke  him,  Mas'  Lance  —  inside  an  ole 
box  what  I  had  my  bed  on.  Now  I  done  got 
him  rated  ship's  dog  aboard  dis  steamer." 

"  But,  Mel,"  said  his  old  master,  after  an  earn 
est  hand-shaking,  "don't  you  betray  me  yourself 
nor  let  the  dog  betray  me.  I  am  in  hiding  now, 
as  I  was  at  Blacksmith  Harry's  before  Lee's 
surrender.  You  seem  to  have  done  well  for 
yourself.  How  is  it  with  your  father  ? " 

"Mas'  Lancelot,  he  done  got  swep'  up  by 
Sherman's  march,  jus'  like  de  dogs.  Got  to 
haulin'  something  or  nudder  for  a  colonel  of 
infantry.  An'  he  hauled,  an'  he  hauled,  an'  he 
hauled,  an'  dat  ole  colonel  was  mos'  onmerciful, 
an'  kep'  a  putten  an'  a  putten  on  his  mules,  an' 
nebber  done  let  him  an'  de  mules  off  until  he 
hauled  straight  into  Washington.  Den  he  took 
sick,  an'  went  in  hospital,  an'  got  discharged,  an' 
could  n't  do  no  good  day's  work  ;  an'  what  was 
worse,  after  he  took  sick,  Government  done  stole 
his  mules." 


104  SALVAGE. 


"My  mules,  you  mean,  Mel,"  said  his  old 
master. 

"  Well,  may  be  so,  Mas'  Lance.  Anyhow, 
when  he  took  sick,  Government  got  'em.  But 
whar  's  you  boun'  for  now,  Mas'  Lancelot  ? "  he 
went  on,  changing  the  subject.  "  Seen  you  come 
creep  —  creepin'  up  de  ship's  side,  'longside  of 
Miss  Adela  —  " 

"  Miss  Adela  !  How  come  you  to  know  Miss 
Adela  ? " 

"Why,  she  an'  young  Mas'  Lance  come  out 
with  us  las'  voyage.  But  I  known  her  before,  in 
New  York.  I  seen  her  in  her  pa's  house,  on 
Fifth  Avenue,  when  I  come  North,  from  Georgy. 
I  looked  her  up  in  New  York.  Me  an'  de  pup 
done  look  for  her  in  dat  ar'  big  place,  an'  we 
foun'  her.  I  tole  her  how  he  'd  been  your  pup, 
an'  how  you  'd  raised  him,  and  that  I  'd  been  one 
ob  de  little  darkeys  used  to  play  an'  hunt  with 
you  on  de  ole  plantation.  An'  Miss  Adela  an' 
her  pa  dey  was  right  good  to  me  ;  an'  I  mos' 
thought  young  Mas'  Lance  would  have  gone  wild 
about  dat  pup,  'cos  his  own  pa  done  raised  him. 
An'  her  ma,  too,  —  his  grandma,  —  she's  a  right 
kind  old  lady.  Dey 's  mighty  rich,  dey  say. 
Got  me  dis  berth  as  steward.  Jus'  wrote  a  line, 
an'  dey  took  me  right  away.  Thought  I  knowed 
you  as  you  corned  aboard,  an'  de  ole  pup,  too  ; 
an'  den  we  bofe  got  throvved  off  de  scent,  an* 


CHURCH  AT  SEA.  105 

could  n't  fix  it  nohow,  'cos  you  stayed  on  deck 
while  dat  ar'  ole  white-whiskered  Englishman 
an'  de  captain  done  handed  down  Miss  Adela  to 
her  state-room.  Went  down  into  your  own  state 
room  after  dat,  Mas'  Lance ;  saw  dat  chum  o' 
yourn  dog-sick,  calling  on  de  under-steward,  who 
got  charge  of  him,  for  brandy — brandy  an'  soda. 
Dat  ar'  ain't  no  company  for  you,  Mas'  Lance ! 
Seed  your  name  on  your  portmanteau.  Look 
here,  Mas'  Lancelot,  why  is  n't  you  in  de  bridal 
state-room  with  Miss  Adela  ?  " 

Then,  after  a  pause,  as  if  waiting  for  an  answer, 
which  did  not  come,  he  said,  — 

"  Young  missee  real  sweet  —  an*  rich,  too,  Mas' 
Lancelot.  She  make  your  fortune.  What  for 
you  don'  come  home,  build  up  de  ole  place,  an' 
live  like  your  pa  done  before  de  war,  in  Georgy  ? 
Young  missee  corned  out  with  us  las'  trip,  an' 
Mas'  Lancey.  Ah  !  ain't  his  mother's  heart  jus' 
sot  on  that  young  gentleman  ?  Where  Mas' 
Lancey  now,  sah  ?  Don'  know  how  his  mother 
done  persuade  herself  to  part  with  him.  Stew 
ardess  done  say  she  crying  herself  sick  down  be 
low.  Don'  you  want  to  go  down  an'  see  after  her  ? 
I  '11  show  you  de  way — " 

"Hush, 'Mel!"  said  his  master.  "You  must 
promise  me  —  we  were  boys  together  on  the  old 
place  before  the  war,  you  know  —  not  to  whisper 
who  I  am  to  any  person  on  board  this  ship.  You 


106  SALVAGE. 


understand  me,  —  to  nobody,  especially  not  to  — 
to  my  —  my  —  your  Miss  Adela.  Remember, 
too,  Mel,  that  my  name  on  board  this  ship  is 
Joseph  Dobson.  I  have  a  reason  for  wishing, 
for  a  few  days,  to  conceal  my  own." 

"  Nothin'  done  gone  wrong,  is  there,  Mas' 
Lancelot,  '  bout  dem  Union  'ffairs  ?  Heard  dey 
had  made  it  all  right  for  your  case  in  de  am 
nesty  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  all  right  as  to  the  government. 
But  now,  Mel,  remember ;  mind  what  I  say. 
Have  you  told  any  one  I  am  on  board  this 
steamer  ? " 

"  No  ;  not  one  single  livin'  soul,  Mas'  Lance 
lot,  —  nor  I  won't !  I  won't  tell  no  one  on  dis 
ship,  sartin,  sacred  sure,  sah ! " 

"  Well,  Mel,  I  must  trust  you.  If  you  keep 
my  secret,  I  will  make  it  worth  while  for  yon. 
Indeed,  you  might  do  Miss  Adela  and  myself 
great  harm  at  present.  Keep  a  close  mouth  and 
a  still  tongue." 

"  Mr.  Quin,  sah,  head  steward  say,  See  all 
clar  for  morning  service.  New  York  parson  on 
board.  Sunday  mornin',  sah !  "  interrupted  an 
inferior  steward. 

In  a  moment  Mel  was  at  his  post,  super 
intending  the  clearance  of  the  saloon  tables,  and 
laying  the  captain's  official  Bible  and  prayer 
book  in  the  place  of  honor. 


CHUR CH  AT  SEA .  I O/ 

Colonel  Wolcott  was  watching  near  the  door 
of  the  saloon,  when  he  saw  his  wife  come  up  the 
brass-bound  stairs  with  her  prayer  book  and 
hymnal  in  her  hand.  The  Reverend  Doctor 
Danvers  was  already  at  his  post,  and  the  congre 
gation  was  assembling.  She  looked  pale  and 
worn,  with  purple  circles  round  her  eyes,  and  a 
weary,  beseeching  expression. 

As  her  unsteady  feet  ascended  the  glittering 
steps  of  the  companion-ladder,  he  sprang  forward, 
and  offered  her  the  support  of  his  arm.  She 
tried  to  acknowledge  the  attention  with  a  smile. 
They  stood  together  for  a  few  moments,  gazing 
at  a  gray,  grim  sky  overarching  a  gray,  grim, 
shadowless  sea. 

The  ship  was  rising  and  sinking  in  long  opaline 
swells  with  a  prolonged  heave  in  them,  sheering 
through  their  crests  as  they  rose  under  her  fore 
foot,  scattering  spray  and  foam.  Each  wave,  as 
she  surmounted  it,  glided  away  under  her,  crin 
kled  and  dull  green,  till  she  sank  into  another 
opaline  trough,  with  another  opal-tinted  elevation 
rising  before  her. 

Not  a  word  was  exchanged  between  wife  and 
husband.  Their  hearts  were  burthened  with  un 
utterable  thoughts ;  and  though  each  was  far 
from  guessing  what  was  passing  in  the  mind  of 
the  other,  each  felt  magnetic  sympathy  in  the 
scene  before  them.  They  were  awed  by  their 


108  SALVAGE. 

first  sense  of  being  out  of  sight  of  land,  "alone 
on  the  wide,  wide  sea,"  with  no  familiar  object 
in  sight  except  the  sky  above  them.  "  I  would 
as  soon  make  love  to  a  princess  on  her  birth 
day,  before  all  her  court,"  says  Jean  Paul,  "  as 
worship  Nature  in  the  midst  of  an  impertinent, 
chattering  crowd,"  —  like  that,  he  might  have 
added,  which  makes  up  the  majority  of  passen 
gers  in  an  ocean  steamer. 

"  Are  you  coming  to  church  ? "  she  said,  after 
a  few  moments'  contemplation  of  the  sky  and  sea. 
Her  tone  and  smile  were  an  invitation. 

He  bowed  his  head,  and  followed  her  into  the 
saloon,  taking  his  place  beside  her. 

On  the  starboard  side  of  the  great  dining- 
saloon  were  assembled  such  of  the  ship's  com 
pany  as  could  be  spared  for  the  occasion,  dressed 
in  their  Sunday  toggery,  and  a  detachment  of 
colored  stewards  in  jackets  of  white  cotton.  The 
passengers  and  officers  of  the  ship  took  their 
seats  by  the  port  tables.  The  Reverend  Doctor 
Danvers,  an  elderly  New  York  clergyman,  took 
the  captain's  place  at  the  head  of  the  first  table, 
and  Captain  Moore  sat  near  him,  sonorously  lead 
ing  the  responses. 

So  near,  and  yet  so  far !  The  two,  once  hus 
band  and  wife,  rested  their  faces  on  their  hands 
at  the  same  table,  and  read  from  the  same  Book  of 
Common  Prayer.  He  could  have  said,  with  the 
young  Puritan, — 


CHUR  CH  A  T  SEA .  1 09 

"  Long  were  the  prayers  the  good  man  said, 

But  they  seemed  not  long  to  me, 
For  in  my  heart  I  prayed  the  while, 
And  still  I  prayed  for  thee." 

as  he  whispered  by  her  side  the  first  real  prayer 
that  he  had  uttered  since  boyhood, —  that  her 
heart  might  be  moved  to  forgive  him  his  tres 
passes,  and  that  God  would  deliver  them  both 
from  the  evils  among  which  they  seemed  astray, 
and  give  them  back  to  each  other  and  to  their 
child. 

We  must  begin  by  praying  for  what  we  really 
want,  or  we  shall  never  learn  the  worth  and 
power  of  prayer.  We  must  gradually  rise  from 
outward  wants  to  spiritual  things.  Old  age  and 
vigorous  manhood  alike  have  their  childhood  in 
religious  life  ;  and  as  the  child  puts  up  its  little 
plea  in  faith  for  what  matured  Christians  are 
apt  to  think  inadequate  or  irreverent  things,  so 
those  who  begin  by  asking  earnestly  for  what 
they  want,  will  end,  after  they  have  ripened  in 
the  Christian  life,  by  raising  the  tone  of  their 
petitions.  Great  harm  has  been  done  to  begin 
ners  in  the  habit  of  prayer,  by  checking  the 
natural  impulses  of  genuine  aspiration. 

So  Colonel  Wolcott,  who  had  learned  no 
prayers  beside  his  mother's  knee,  and  had 
imbibed  German  notions  of  the  irrationality  of 
prayer,  now  thought  of  his  little  Lancey,  who 
had  lisped  an  innocent  plea  for  his  unknown 


110  SALVAGE. 

father  during  his  perils  in  Central  Asia  ;  of  the 
prayer  that  had  escaped  his  wife's  lips  at  the 
moment  of  their  slight  accident  between  Man 
chester  and  Liverpool ;  and  as  he  listened  to  her 
fervent,  broken  words,  and  watched  her  clasped 
hands,  strained  together  to  give  emphasis  to  her 
petitions,  he  added  a  fervent  "  Amen  ! "  to  what 
ever  she  was  asking. 

"  Give  me  her  love  and  trust  again  ! "  he  prayed. 
"  Grant  me  her  forgiveness  and  thine  own, 
O  gracious  Heaven,  give  me  back  my  wife  and 
child  ! " 

The  clergyman,  at  the  right  pause,  gave  out  a 
hymn  from  the  American  Church  Hymnal.  He 
had  intended  to  select  one  of  those  appointed  for 
services  at  sea,  but  in  turning  to  the  place,  his 
eyes  lighted  on  another,  which  seemed  appro 
priate  to  his  intended  sermon. 

He  designated,  therefore,  the  first  two  verses 
of  the  two  hundred  and  sixty-second  hymn. 

"  Mrs.  Wolcott,"  he  whispered,  "will  you  do  us 
the  kindness  to  raise  the  tune?" 

Then  for  the  first  time  Colonel  Wolcott  heard 
the  swell  of  his  wife's  voice,  and  knew  that  she 
could  sing.  He  had  heard  her,  during  their 
courtship  and  brief  married  life,  sing  silly,  senti 
mental  ballads  of  the  kind  dear  to  school-girls  ; 
but  now  her  very  soul,  like  a  bird's,  seemed 
poured  forth  in  her  notes,  and  thrilled  his  heart 


CHURCH  AT  SEA.  Ill 

with  an  emotion  almost  greater  than  he  could 
bear. 

Ah  !  music  penetrates  where  language  cannot 
pass.  In  that  respect,  great  are  her  advantages 
over  eloquence  or  literature.  Music  has  a  part 
in  everything  most  supreme,  most  calculated 
to  draw  us  out  of  self.  She  is  the  voice  of  na 
ture,  both  in  nature's  outward  works  and  in  the 
secret  souls  of  men.  She  stirs  the  heart  of  peas 
ant  and  of  prince  alike  ;  she  inspires  brave  men 
with  enthusiasm,  and  deepens  every  genuine 
emotion  ;  she  wails  over  our  griefs,  she  triumphs 
in  our  deliverances. 

"  Safe  home,  safe  home  in  port ! 

Rent  cordage,  shattered  deck, 
Torn  sails,  provisions  short, 

And  only  not  a  wreck. 
Put  oh,  the  joy,  upon  the  shore 
To  tell  our  voyage  troubles  o'er  1 

"  The  prize,  the  prize  secure  I 

The  warrior  nearly  fell, 
Bore  all  he  could  endure, 

And  bare  not  always  well ; 
But  he  may  smile  at  troubles  gone, 
And  set  the  victor  garland  on." 

Twelve  lines  beneath  contempt  as  verse,  so  poor 
that  they  have  been  omitted  from  the  last  edition 
of  the  American  Church  Hymnal ;  but  united  to 
music  and  sung  by  his  wife's  voice,  every  line 
adapted  itself  to  his  emotions :  no  poem,  pasan, 
harmony,  or  chaunt  had  ever  so  excited  him. 


112  SALVAGE. 

"  But'only  not  a  wreck  !  "  exclaimed  his  heart. 
"  But  only  not  a  wreck  !  I  have  been  wrecking 
everything  worth  bringing  into  port ;  wrecking 
her,  wrecking  Lance,  wrecking  myself,  her 
motherhood,  her  happiness,  perhaps  her  honor ! 
And  I  did  it  from  ignorance  —  pure  ignorance  ! 
Wrecked,  but  not  lost !  Wrecked,  but  still  able 
to  get  into  port. 

" '  And  oh,  the  joy,  upon  the  shore 
To  tell  our  voyage  troubles  o'er ! '  " 

In  a  reverie  of  happiness  his  soul  floated  away 
during  the  sermon.  Doubtless  the  good  doctor 
gave  an  excellent  discourse,  full  of  comfort  and 
instruction  for  such  of  his  hearers  as  were  pre 
pared  to  profit  by  it ;  but  Colonel  Wolcott,  almost 
a  heathen,  was  taking  his  instruction  from  a 
higher  source  during  its  delivery. 

He  was  a  man  of  tender,  generous  impulses, 
fitted  by  nature  for  the  enjoyment  of  domestic 
life,  and  the  fulfilment  of  all  family  claims  on  his 
affections.  He  barely  remembered  his  father, 
and  never  had  a  mother  such  as  his  own  wife 
seemed  to  be  to  his  own  son.  Wife  and  child, 
indeed,  his  fate  had  given  him,  but  he  had  flung 
the  gift  away.  Yet  Adela  seemed  more  his  own 
at  that  moment  than  she  had  done  during  their 
brief  matrimony  of  three  months,  or  their  subse 
quent  nine  years  of  separation. 

One  thing,  at  least,  was  certain.     He  asked 


CHUR CH  AT  SEA .  113 

far  more  of  marriage  now  than  he  had  done  at 
first.  New  cravings,  new  longings,  new  possi 
bilities  of  excellence  and  delight,  opened  to  his 
apprehension. 

"  And  only  not  a  wreck ! " 

That  was  not  all  he  asked.  He  panted  to  re 
fresh  himself  with  happiness,  —  a  happiness  that 
was  all  new  to  him,  a  happiness  which,  for  years 
past,  he  had  discredited  and  disdained. 

The  "youth,  light-hearted  and  content,"  the 
"  wandering  Arab "  of  society,  now  seemed  to 
him  a  tramp  and  outcast,  either  vainly  seeking 
entrance  to  a  better  life,  or  not  elevated  to  the 
point  of  understanding  what  was  good  for  him. 

Yet  such  he  felt  might  still  be  his  own  fate, 
should  he  lose  this  new  hope.  The  door  might 
be  already  shut :  she  might  not  rise  and  open  it 
for  him. 

"  But  this,  at  least,  I  can  do,"  he  exclaimed  in 
thought,  as  he  looked  at  his  wife's  clasped  hands 
as  she  prayed  to  God  beside  him.  "  One  prayer 
which  she  is  now  praying  I  can  grant.  I  call  on 
God,  who  is,  the  preacher  tells  us,  present  in 
this  place,  to  hear  my  vow,  —  that,  so  far  as  in  me 
lies,  she  shall  not  be  parted  from  her  boy,  what 
ever  happens ;  and  if  she  will  not  let  me  share 
him,  I  will  go  back  —  to  Asia  —  into  darkness 
—  what  matter  where  ?  " 

The  services  were  over.  They  ended  by  an- 
8 


114  SALVAGE. 

other  hymn,  in  which  Adela  led  the  singing. 
The  little  congregation  then  dispersed.  Adela 
was  handed  by  the  captain  on  to  the  guards. 
Then  an  entirely  new  experience  came  suddenly 
to  her  husband.  He  found  her  the  object  of 
attention  to  all  the  gentlemen  on  deck,  and  he 
himself  shut  out  from  her  society. 

Sir  George  Beevor,  Dr.  Danvers,  Captain 
Moore,  and  several  New  York  young  men  clus 
tered  around  her ;  and  when  he  saw  their  defer 
ence  and  their  devotion,  and  realized  how 
charming  the  poor  girl  he  had  so  long  despised 
could  make  herself  to  men  of  cultivation  and 
taste,  his  whole  heart  thrilled  with  indignation 
against  himself  and  with  an  impotent  jealousy 
against  the  rest  of  mankind. 


TO  LOVE.  115 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

TO   LOVE. 

The  common  spring  of  all  mutual  duties,  on  both  sides,  must  be  sup 
posed  to  be  love ;  that  peculiar  conjugal  love  which  makes  them  one 
will  diffuse  such  sweetness  into  the  authority  of  the  husband,  and  the 
obedience  of  the  wife,  as  will  make  their  lives  harmonious,  like  the  sound 
of  a  well-tuned  instrument;  whereas,  without  that,  having  such  a  uni 
versal  conjuncture  of  interest  in  all  their  affairs,  they  cannot  escape  fre 
quent  contests  and  discords ;  which  is  a  sound  more  unpleasant  than  the 
jarring  of  untuned  strings  to  an  exact  ear.  All  will  hold  right  when 
love  commands  and  love  obeys.  ARCHBISHOP  LEIGHTON. 

A  FTER  luncheon,  such  of  the  passengers  as 
*  ^  had  "sea  legs"  gathered  in  groups  of  twos 
and  threes  about  the  quarter-deck,  which  in  an 
ocean  steamer  of  the  Crimea's  build  means  aft, 
upon  the  guards.  The  sea  was  too  rough  for  the 
hurricane-deck ;  only  one  officer  had  ventured 
there. 

Captain  Moore  had  found  for  Mrs.  Wolcott  a 
sheltered  nook  under  the  lee  of  the  saloon.  The 
sun  was  shining,  and  it  had  driven,  away  the  mist. 
It  was  pleasant  upon  deck,  notwithstanding  the 
unusual  swell.  Adela  was  seated  among  sundry 
smooth  and  shapely  coils  of  rope,  where  cushions 
had  been  laid  for  her  accommodation,  and  she 


Il6  SALVAGE. 

held  a  book  in  her  hand.  She  was  not  reading, 
however.  She  had  been  talking  to  the  captain, 
and  when  he  was  called  away  by  one  of  the  stew 
ards,  Mr.  Dobson  took  his  place,  leaning  over  her 
where  she  sat,  and  steadying  himself  by  a  back 
stay  of  the  mizzen. 

They  began  by  talking  about  Lance.  Adela 
trembled  when  her  husband  first  mentioned  him. 
He  asked  where  she  had  left  him. 

She  answered  indefinitely,  "At  school  in  Eng 
land." 

Appreciating  her  reluctance  to  say  more,  he 
put  no  further  questions. 

In  gratitude  for  this,  and  impelled  by  nervous 
eagerness  to  keep  speaking  of  Lance,  she  allowed 
him  then  to  lead  her  into  such  anecdotes  of  their 
boy  as  are  dear  to  parents'  hearts,  and  she  saw 
with  keen  delight  that  he  drank  in  with  eager 
ness  every  word  of  information  which  she  vouch 
safed  him. 

She  paused  at  last,  and  he  stood  silent  by  her 
side,  feeling  as  though  he  needed  time  and  soli 
tary  thought  to  ponder  all  he  had  heard. 

After  some  minutes  she  got  up  and  walked 
over  to  the  bulwark.  He  joined  her,  and  they 
stood  together,  looking  over  the  ship's  side,  watch 
ing  "  the  way  of  a  ship  in  the  sea,"  —  one  of  the 
greatest  of  earthly  mysteries,  thought  the  most 
sagacious  of  mankind. 


TO  LOVE.  IT/ 

"I  love  the  sea,"  she  said  at  length,  "and 
Lancey  loves  it  too.  He  is  a  very  bold  little 
bather.  I  took  him  to  Newport  last  summer. 
He  has  never  spent  a  year  without  seeing  the 
ocean.  But  this  monotony  of  waters,  out  of 
sight  of  land,  fatigues  me  and  destroys  my  sym 
pathy.  The  Atlantic  that  I  love  is  all  variety, 
all  wild  caprice.  One  needs  the  land  to  stand 
upon,  I  think,  to  see  the  highest  beauty  of  the 
ocean." 

"  Landscapes  and  seascapes  too,"  said  Colonel 
Wolcott,  "  need  a  touch  of  something  human  to 
make  them  satisfactory.  My  greatest  interest  at 
sea  is  in  observing  seamanship.  I  sympathize 
with  the  eternal  struggle  between  sailors  and  the 
sea.  Every  act  of  seamanship,  even  the  most 
trivial, —  the  splicing  of  a  rope,  the  trimming  of  a 
yard, —  is  so  much  added  to  the  human  side.  A 
timely  skill  is  self-defence,  eternal  vigilance  the 
price  of  safety." 

"  Yes,"  she  replied  ;  "  a  ship  too  seems  to  me  a 
living  thing.  One's  sympathies  are  always  with 
the  ship  and  those  on  board  of  her.  Admire 
Nature  as  we  may,  when  a  crisis  comes  in  the 
eternal  trial  of  strength  between  herself  and  man, 
we  at  once  take  sides  against  her." 

There  was  a  little  pause. 

"  I  delight  as  much  in  Newport  as  you  do,"  he 
resumed. 


Il8  SALVAGE. 

Adela  trembled.  This  remark  seemed  to  intro 
duce  something  personal  into  the  conversation. 

"Then  you  know  Newport,  Mr.  Dobson  ?"  she 
said  after  a  moment,  during  which  she  had  de 
liberated  whether  she  should  hasten  what  must 
now  be  coming. 

"  Old  Newport,  summer  Newport,  Newport 
rocks  and  Newport  fishing-grounds,  its  island 
roads,  Bateman's,  the  Glen,  Blue  Rocks,  Para 
dise,  Purgatory,  Block  Island,  Canonicut,  —  I 
know  them  all  well ! "  he  answered  with  enthu 
siasm. 

"  I  thought  in  the  train  that  you  gave  us  to 
understand  that  you  were  an  Englishman." 

"  I  knew  that  you  supposed  me  A ,  of  our 

prison  in  the  hills,"  he  said.  "  Nationalities  are 
unstable  in  these  days.  I  have  changed  mine  so 
often  that  now  I  shall  have  to  make  an  effort  to 
prove  that  I  have  one.  All  now  depends  upon 
the  next  two  weeks  with  me.  I  may  go  abroad 
forever,  and  become  an  Asiatic,  —  fulfil  the  des 
tiny  sketched  in  Locksley  Hall  perhaps.  I  can 
imagine  circumstances  in  which  that  life  may  be 
all  that  will  be  left  me." 

"  What !  take  the  '  dusky  woman'  ?"  Adela  re 
plied  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Why  not,  if  all  else  fails  me  ?  If  I  am 
wrecked,  adrift,  if  I  fail  to  get  safe  home  in  port, 
what  else  remains  to  me  ?  It  is  not  good  for  man 


TO  LOVE.  119 

to  be  alone.  I  feel  it  —  he  felt  it.  If  he  adjusted 
himself  to  the  only  existence  left,  and  made 
himself  a  shelter  out  of  such  rubbish  as  had  come 
ashore  with  him,  do  you  blame  him  ? " 

"  With  my  whole  soul  I  believe,"  she  said, 
"  that  brave  hearts  can  conquer  circumstances  ; 
that  every  dreadful  thing,  when  we  draw  near  and 
confront  it,  proves  less  dreadful  than  it  seemed 
in  fancy;  and  that,  if  we  cannot  compel  all  things 
to  our  hopes,  we  can  adjust  ourselves  to  them." 

"  How  dq  you  mean  me  to  understand  you 
when  you  speak  like  that  ?  Listen,"  he  said. 
"  This  is  a  crisis  in  my  life.  Many  years  ago  I 
wrecked  myself,  and  lost  what  might  have  made 
me  a  good  man.  Not  many  hours  since  I  saw  a 
prospect  of  regaining  what  I  threw  away.  A 
few  days  will  decide  what  now  becomes  of  me. 
Give  me  your  good  wishes  !  " 

Adela  trembled  exceedingly.  She  flushed  and 
then  grew  pale,  but  she  stood  silent. 

"  I  will  pledge  myself  to  nothing  unless  I  fully 
understand,"  at  length  she  said. 

Of  what  could  he  be  speaking  ?  Was  she  her 
self  the  object  of  his  hopes,  or  was  it  Cora  No 
ble  ?  Was  this  a  stratagem  to  sound  her  on  the 
subject  of  divorce,  to  commit  her  unawares  to  co 
operate  with  his  wishes  ?  Was  he  really  hoping 
to  recover  his  lost  happiness  by  making  a  second 
marriage  with  Mrs.  Tontine  ? 


120  SALVAGE. 

For  a  brief  moment  her  only  wish  was  that  he 
were  free,  and  that  she  herself  lay  deep  under  the 
green,  grim  waves  that  heaved  before  her. 

"  My  chances  all  depend  on  you,"  he  said,  low 
ering  his  voice  until  he  whispered  in  her  ear,  and 
speaking  rapidly,  "If  you  care  nothing  for  my 
happiness,  think  of  your  boy !  How  can  you 
part  with  him  ?  However  much  I  may  forbear, 
that  must  come  some  day,  you  know." 

"  I  understand  you  now,"  she  said.  It  was  a 
bribe.  She  saw  it.  "  I  understand,  and  I  dare 
not,  dare  not,  must  not  encourage  what  you  wish 
to  do.  I  cannot  wish  that  you  should  succeed. 
I  am  forced  to  stand  in  your  way,  if  possible." 

"  O  Mrs.  Wolcott,  Captain  Moore  has  been 
saying  that's  a  horrid  man!  He  is  quite  uneasy 
about  your  getting  acquainted  with  him.  Dob- 
son  is  not  his  name.  He  has  been  defaulting  or 
forging  or  stealing — he  is  dreadful!"  broke  in 
Harrie  Tontine,  pulling  hard  at  Mrs.  WSlcott's 
dress,  and  speaking  in  a  shrill  stage-whisper. 
Harrie,  ever  since  luncheon,  had  been  racing  up 
and  down  the  deck.  "The  captain  is  coming 
himself  to  break  it  up,  he  says.  I  heard  him 
and  mamma  speaking  of  it  together.  He  said  it 
annoyed  him  very  much.  He  said,  '  I  got  a  hint 
to  shadow  him  before  we  started.'  What  did  he 
mean  by  that  ?  I  don't  know  what  he  could 
mean." 


TO  LOVE.  121 

Adela  flushed  all  over,  and  looked  up  at  her 
companion.  She  saw  in  his  face  what  seemed 
the  shadow  of  the  look  he  gave  her  when  they 
parted,  ten  years  before. 

"  Run  away,  Harrie  !  "  she  said.  "  The  gentle 
man  is  my  friend.  He  is  well  known  to  me. 
You  should  not  repeat  to  me  what  the  captain 
may  have  said  to  Mrs.  Tontine." 

"How  much  of  this  do  you  believe  ? "  said 
Colonel  Wolcott  hoarsely. 

"  Nothing.     But  they  say  on  board  — 

"  That  Dobson  is  a  thick-built,  bullet-headed, 
red-faced  British  bagman.  At  least,  such  is  the 
man  I  saw  at  Liverpool.  I  bought  his  ticket,  and 
am  travelling  under  his  name.  Before  the  voyage 
ends  I  had  hoped  to  explain  it  all  to  you." 

He  spoke  hurriedly,  for  he  saw  Captain  Moore 
approaching  them,  with  Sir  George  Beevor. 

"  Mrs.  Wolcott,  we  are  passing  the  Tusker. 
Let  me  take  you  over  to  the  other  side  of  the 
ship.  You  will  see  it  best  under  the  break  of  the 
poop,"  said  the  captain. 

"And  let  me  offer  you  my  arm,"  said  Sir 
George  Beevor.  "  I  did  not  know  until  this  mo 
ment,"  he  added,  as  Adela,  aided  by  Mr.  Dobson, 
gathered  up  her  shawls, "  that  you  were  the  wife 
of  the  traveller,  Colonel  Wolcott.  You  must  be 
very  proud  of  him.  I  have  read  no  book  for 
years  that  has  seemed  to  draw  me  so  closely  and 


122  SALVAGE. 

personally  to  the  author.    How  long  has  he  been 
in  the  East,  and  when  do  you  expect  him  back?" 

"  He  has  been  away  nine  years,"  she  said, 
"  five  in  the  East  and  four  in  the  Army  of  the 
Southern  Confederacy.  This  gentleman,"  indi 
cating  Dobson,  "  can  tell  you  more  about  him 
than  I  can.  He  saw  him  not  long  since  in 
India." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Dobson  ! "  said  Captain  Moore. 
"  Where  did  you  fall  in  with  him  ? " 

"  I  was  with  him  in  the  hill  fort  that  he  speaks 
of  in  his  travels." 

"  Indeed  ! "  cried  Sir  George.  "  Then  perhaps 
you  are  the  friend  whom  he  calls  A.  ?  Colonel 
Wolcott's  portrait  in  the  '  Illustration  '  of  last 
week  is  not  what  I  expected.  I  had  not  sup 
posed  him  so  old  a  man." 

Sir  George  said  this  as  he  was  moving  away 
with  Captain  Moore  and  Adela.  Mr.  Dobson 
did  not  follow  them.  He  remained  leaning 
against  the  bulkhead,  and  heard  the  voice  of 
Mrs.  Tontine  speaking  within  the  saloon,  as  she 
sat  in  her  place  over  the  lunch-table. 

"  I  don't  know  what  Dr.  Danvers  and  other 
people  mean  by  always  holding  up  Adela  Wolcott 
as  the  model  of  a  woman,  in  her  situation.  There 
she  is  flirting  with  the  only  Englishman  of  rank 
on  board,  and  there  's  that  doubtful  person  with 
an  enormous  beard,  who  don't  seem  able  to  keep 


TO  LOVE.  123 

his  eyes  off  her.  It  is  all  very  well  for  us  lost  sin 
ners  to  amuse  ourselves,  —  there  is  nothing  to  be 
done  at  sea  but  to  flirt  and  to  eat,  and  to  play 
whist  or  chess  or  euchre,  —  but  for  the  saints  to 
take  the  game  out  of  our  very  hands  seems  un 
pen  fort,  don't  you  think  so  ?  " 

" '  Not  too  bright  and  good/  you  know,  Mrs. 
Tontine,  is  one  of  a  woman's  perfections,"  said  a 
young  man  who  was  near  her. 

"  Oh,  hush  up,  Mr.  Offley  !  You  men  always 
take  up  for  Mrs.  Wolcott.  Well,  she  is  going  to 
be  divorced  in  a  few  weeks,  —  if  indeed  she  is  not 
divorced  already,  —  and  with  her  face  and  her 
fortune  'she  will  be  a  splendid  speculation  for 
some  of  you.  She  made  her  first  husband 
wretched, —  these  extra  good  women  have  a 
knack  of  being  uncomfortable  to  the  men  who 
own  them,  —  but  that  will  not  be  taken  into  ac 
count  by  her  aspirants." 

"  I  heard  she  was  going  to  defend  the  suit. 
Mrs.  ttobbes  told  me  so,"  said  Mr.  Offley.  "  Mrs. 
Hobbes  seemed  to  think  that  it  was  not  her  wish 
to  be  parted  from  so  distinguished  a  husband." 

"  Mrs.  Hobbes  believes  anything  she  is  told  ! 
She  does  not  make  allowances  for  Adela  Wol 
cott' s  temper.  7  would  n't  be  the  woman  to 
hang  on  to  a  man  who  did  not  want  me,  I  know  ! 
I  never  saw  good  come  of  it.  I  always  think 
such  women,  when  they  are  ill-treated,  get  about 
what  they  deserve  from  their  husbands." 


124  SALVAGE. 

"  Ah  !  you  mean  when  a  woman  is  engaged  to 
a  man  who  wants  to  break  it  off,  and  she  keeps 
him  to  his  engagement, — a  sort  of  genteel  breach- 
of-promise  case  ?  But  this  is  different.  Here  is 
positive  obligation.  I  suppose,  Mrs.  Tontine,  you 
agree  with  Mr.  Froude  in  his  judgment  on  King 
Henry  VIII.,  and  Queen  Katharine,  —  that  it  is 
not  good  taste  for  a  woman  to  cross  her  husband, 
if  he  takes  a  fancy  to  get  rid  of  her." 

"Oh!  as  to  Henry  VIII.,  I  quite  agree  with 
Mr.  Froude  and  everybody.  He  was  a  wretch, 
a  regular  royal  Bluebeard,  —  that  we  all  know," 
cried  Mrs.  Tontine,  who  thought  herself  upon 
safe  ground  as  to  that  fact  in  history.  "  But 
Colonel  Wolcott  never  was  like  Henry  VIII. 
He  was  charming  as  a  bachelor ;  and  Adela,  how 
ever  much  you  men  all  rave  about  her  now,  was 
not  at  all  the  woman  to  get  on  with  him.  He 
was  fastidious  about  women.  It  was  a  mere 
mariage  de  convenance.  By  the  way,  have  any  of 
you  read  his  book  ?  Is  n't  it  lovely  ? " 

Then,  after  a  pause  :  — 

"  I  wonder  if  she  has  read  it !  I  would  like  to 
find  out  what  she  thinks^of  it.  Mr.  Offley,  give 
me  your  arm.  Suppose  we  go  on  deck  and  see 
the  Tusker?  I  should  like  to  get  her  to  talk 
about  Colonel  Wolcott  and  his  book.  It  would 
be  fun." 

Pursuant  to  this  plan,  Mrs.  Tontine,  five  min- 


TO  LOVE.  12$ 

utes  afterwards,  came  forth  on  the  guards,  in  a 
nube  and  a  waterproof,  leaning  on  Mr.  Offley's 
arm,  Mel  carrying  a  camp-stool  behind  them. 

"  Ah  !  Sir  George,"  she  said,  as  she  placed  her 
self  beside  him  and  his  companion,  "  do  not  let 
me  spoil  an  agreeable  tete-a-tete.  It  would  be 
mean  of  me  ;  for  if  you  spend  this  winter  in  New 
York,  you  will  find  Mrs.  Wolcott  the  acknowl 
edged  belle  of  the  season.  We  are  all  in  dread 
of  her.  I  don't  mean  widows  on  small  means, 
fassees,  like  myself,  —  we  have  no  chance  to  enter 
into  competition  with  her  freshness  and  her  for 
tune,  —  but  her  debilt  in  society  is  dreaded  by 
young  ladies  in  their  teens.  She  is  to  be  the 
First  Prize  this  winter  in  the  New  York  lottery 
of  marriage." 

"  Don't,  if  you  please,  Mrs.  Tontine,"  said 
Adela,  moving  away  at  once.  "  I  am  not  going 
into  society.  Such  remarks  are  very  disagreeable 
to  me." 

.  "  Oh  !  my  dear,  you  have  not  been  much  in 
society  hitherto,  because  of  your  position  ;  but 
things  will  be  very  different  when  you  are  free. 
Why,  with  all  your  advantages,  you  may  do  any 
thing  you  please.  You  have  no  z'-dea  what  a  ca 
reer  you  have  before  you.  They  say,"  she  added, 
turning  to  Sir  George  Beevor,  "  that  to  be  gener 
ally  talked  about  is  a  passport  to  success  in 
America.  Keep  your  name  before  the  public,  no 
matter  how,  and  it  wins  you  half  your  battle." 


126  SALVAGE. 


"  Indeed,  Mrs.  Tontine,"  said  Adela,  "  I  am 
only  anxious  to  keep  my  name  away  from  the 
public." 

"  If  you  expect  to  do  so,  my  dear,  in  connec 
tion  with  Colonel  Wolcott, — a  man  whose  fame 
is  on  everybody's  tongue,  now-a-days,  —  I  can 
assure  you  that  you  are  mistaken.  Why,  your 
history  will  point  the  moral  of  every  strong- 
minded  woman's  speech  on  the  anti-husband 
question.  You  need  not  expect  privacy  hence 
forth  until  you  seek  it  in  another  marriage." 

"  Mrs.  Tontine,  do  me  the  kindness  to  let  my 
affairs  alone,  —  at  least  in  my  hearing." 

"  Indeed,  my  dear,  forgive  me  !  I  did  not  mean 
to  rouse  your  temper.  I  forgot  you  were  so  easily 
excited.  I  supposed,  of  course,  your  indignation 
was  all  for  Wolcott,  poor  man ! " 

Adela  at  this  moment  became  mesmerically 
aware,  without  being  able  to  see  her  husband's 
face  (for  a  short-sighted  person  cannot  catch  the 
eye  as  others  do),  that  he  was  earnestly  attentive 
to  the  conversation.  It  seemed  an  opportunity 
for  explanation.  Roused  to  defend  herself,  she 
stood  at  bay. 

"  Mrs.  Tontine,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  care  who 
knows  what  I  think  upon  this  subject.  The 
divorce  to  which  you  allude  is  not  of  my  seeking. 
I  wholly  disapprove  of  it.  I  abhor  and  reject 
the  whole  system  of  divorce,  for  anything  except 


TO  LOVE.  127 

a  Scriptural  reason.  I  lament  that  it  prevails  in 
our  country.  When  I  vowed  a  vow  to  love, 
honor,  and  obey  my  husband  until  death,  I  meant 
to  keep  it." 

"  Yes  ;  but  one  does  not  always  love,  and  one 
cannot  always  honor.  All  marriages  are  not 
love-matches.  Perhaps  love  —  " 

"  That  depends  on  what  you  mean  by  love. 
What  does  a  woman  mean  when  she  promises  to 
4  love  '  in  her  marriage-vow,  Mrs.  Tontine  ? " 

"  Why,  of  course  she  means  she  is  in  love  with 
him,"  said  Mrs.  Tontine,  remembering  rather 
reluctantly  her  own  relations  with  Mr.  Tontine. 

"  I  don't  think  that  she  necessarily  means 
that.  If  she  did,  half  the  marriage-vows  would 
be  perjury." 

"Why,  Mrs.  Wolcott !  Oh,  if  you  come  to 
that !  —  Well,  I  suppose,  from  your  point  of  view 
—  but  I  should  not  have  thought  —  to  be  sure, 
you  were  very  young  !  " 

"  I  trust  that  there  are  many  women  so  happy 
as  to  be  '  in  love,'  in  the  fullest  sense  of  novelist 
or  poet,  when  they  stand  up  to  be  married.  But 
indeed  it  would  be  very  hard  to  define  what  it  is 
to  be  in  love, — how  much  glamour,  how  much 
reality,  how  much  inexperience,  how  much  ex 
cited  feeling  make  up  enough  to  justify  our  being 
called  '  in  love.'  There  (are  Methodists  who 
have  found  it  hard  to  teach  how  much  faith  and 


128  SALVAGE. 

fervency  it  takes  to  authorize  a  man  tc  call  him 
self  a  Christian.  I  think,  Mrs.  Tontine,  that  our 
marriage-vows,  like  our  religious  vows,  are  not 
so  much  /  am,  as  I  will  be.  We  vow  with  pur 
pose  of  heart  that  we  will  love.  We  bind  our 
selves  to  see  that  nothing  in  ourselves,  or  our 
own  history,  or  in  the  man  to  whom  we  pay 
our  vows,  shall  make  it  impossible  for  us  to  keep 
our  word.  We  make  love,  all  through  our  mar 
ried  life,  a  solemn  obligation,  to  be  maintained, 
nourished,  and  increased,  so  far  as  may  be,  every 
day.  The  girl  who  only  vows,  I  am  in  love,  may 
possibly  fall  out  of  love,  or  find  herself  mistaken. 
Thousands  do  this,  and  live  to  feel  their  vows  a 
falsehood,  their  hopes  wrecked,  and  their  lives 
ruined.  But  there  are  those  who,  having  vowed 
I  will  love,  love,  notwithstanding  all  discourage 
ments,  to  the  end.  To  him  that  hath  shall  be 
given.  In  the  hearts  of  those  who  love  at  all, 
love  will  increase  by  cultivation.  It  may  change 
its  nature.  It  may  become,  in  sickness  or  in 
weakness,  a  protecting  love,  or  in  adversity,  a 
helping  one,  or  in  ill-usage,  a  long-suffering  one  ; 
but  if  the  vow  was  made  in  truth,  love  will  be 
love  from  the  wedding  to  the  funeral.  It  is  a 
far  less  solemn  thing,  I  think,  to  vow  /  do  love, 
than  /  will. " 

"  Well !  "  cried  Mrs.  Tontine,  "  to  think  of  your 
advocating  marriage  without  being  in  love  !  " 


TO  LOVE.  129 

"  I  don't.  I  am  arguing  for  increasing  love 
after  marriage,  as  I  would  argue  for  increasing 
faith  after  the  vows  of  confirmation." 

"But  'honoring  and  obeying,'  Mrs.  Wolcott. 
There 's  the  rub,  for  most  women,"  said  young 
Offley,  who  was  interested  in  the  conversation. 
"  I  never  could  see  why  every  rascal  who  is  a 
married  man  should  have  a  woman  pledged  to 
honor  him." 

"Because  you  supposed,  possibly,  a  woman 
pledged  herself  not  to  know  right  from  wrong  in 
favor  of  her  husband.  I  do  not  see  that  women 
are  pledged  to  hoodwink  their  own  moral  sense  ; 
but  I  do  think  we  are  all  bound  to  do  everything 
that  may  promote  the  honor  of  our  husbands, 
either  by  our  counsels,  our  reticence,  or  our  be 
havior  ;  and  experience .  shows,  I  think,  that  a 
woman  who  complains  of  her  husband,  or  gossips 
about  him,  dishonors  herself.  Husband  and 
wife  are  too  intimately  one  for  either  party  to 
claim  sympathy  either  for  himself  -or  herself  at 
the  expense  of  the  other.  If  the  honor  of  either 
is  tarnished,  the  honor  of  the  other  feels  the 
stain.  Granted  the  honor  and  the  love,  the 
obedience  follows.  The  sequence  is  easily  main 
tained." 

"Well!"  said  Mrs.  Tontine,  as  Adela,  at 
tended  by  Sir  George,  walked  away,  " '  Set  a 
thief  to  catch  a  thief ! '  It  takes  a  woman  who 
9 


130  SALVAGE. 


can't  live  with  her  husband  to  lecture  other 
women  on  the  duties  of  married  people.  But  I 
must  say  I  don't  think  it  at  all  a  nice  thing  for  her 
to  be  taking  up  with  any  casual  admirer,  like  that 
tall  man  who  slouches  his  hat  till  you  see  noth 
ing  but  his  beard.  I  declare,  he  watches  till  you 
would  suppose  he  was  trying  to  charm  her,  like 
a  snake.  I  hear  he  is  aboard  under  a  false  name, 
and  the  officers  of  the  ship  think  he  is  some  kind 
of  forger  or  defaulter." 

"  In  that  case,  the  police  may  have  him  out  of 
the  ship  at  Queenstown,"  said  Mr.  Offley.  "Such 
a  thing  happened  to  a  man  the  last  time  I  crossed 
the  ocean  going  home.  He  had  got  Lady -Some 
body's  jewels  stowed  away  in  his  valise.  I  heard 
afterwards  that  they  sent  him  to  the  hulks  for 
fourteen  years.  He  imposed  upon  all  of  us  until 
that  came  about.  He,  like  this  Dobson,  seemed 
to  us  on  board  a  very  quiet,  gentlemanly  fellow." 


TO  HONOR. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

TO    HONOR. 

Giving  honor  unto  the  wife  as  unto  the  weaker  vessel.  This  seems 
at  first  a  little  incongruous.  Honor,  because  weaker.  But  not  when 
we  consider  the  kind  of  honor.  The  weaker  the  vessels  be,  the  more 
tenderly  they  should  be  used.  Yea,  the  tie  of  marriage  makes  of  two, 
one.  That  which  is  part  of  ourselves,  the  more  it  needs  we  do  it 
honor.  ARCHBISHOP  LEIGHTON. 

"V\  7E  once  heard  it  asserted  at  a  missionary 
*  *  meeting  that  tobacco  and  printed  Bibles 
came  almost  simultaneously  into  the  civilized 
world.  "  Alas  !  "  exclaimed  the  orator,  "  in  four 
centuries,  men  out  of  all  the  nations  under 
heaven  are  confirmed  smokers,  whilst — "  We 
omit  his  deduction,  and  take  up  the  defence  of 
the  great  luxury  of  mankind. 

Tobacco,  then,  is  the  sedative  of  the  restless 
portion  of  the  human  race.  By  smoke,  men 
work  off  their  superfluous  energies  ;  it  is  to  them 
what  sewing  is  to  women.  We  admit  that  it  has 
interfered  with  activity  and  individual  greatness  ; 
we  concede  that  since  tobacco  came  into  uni 
versal  use  in  Christendom,  very  great  men  seem 


132  SALVAGE. 


to  have  gone  out  of  use :  but,  allowing  that  the 
world  since  that  period  has  had  few  men  great  as 
Raleigh  or  Columbus,  we  submit  that  these  were 
not  votaries  of  the  Virginia  weed.  Frederick  the 
Great  abhorred  the  Tobacco  Parliaments  of  Fred 
erick  William.  Napoleon  took  only  an  occasion 
al  pinch  of  snuff.  The  lips  of  the  great  Oliver 
never  closed  upon  a  pipe-stem.  Is  all  this  an 
argument  in  favor  of  tobacco  ?  We  think  it  is. 
Individual  activity  has  diminished,  like  individual 
learning ;  but  generalized  activity,  the  activity  of 
co-operation,  the  activity  of  the  age  we  live  in, 
is  so  tremendous  that,  were  its  forces  guided  by 
men  of  such  energy  as  the  pre-tobacconists  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  the  world  would  become  a 
pandemonium  of  unrest,  even  less  fit  than  it  is 
now  for  quiet  folks  to  dwell  in.  Let  us  bless  the 
glorious  memory  of  the  great  Sir  Walter  for  a 
wholesome  corrective  to  the  spirit  of  the  nine 
teenth  century,  and  be  thankful  that  as  much 
progress  as  the  world  can  bear  is  committed  to 
the  impaired  nervous  energies  of  a  tobacco-loving 
generation. 

In  the  smoking-room  of  an  ocean  steamer, 
first-class  and  second-class  smokers  meet  under 
one  clouded  atmosphere  ;  social  distinctions,  as 
in  a  smoking-car,  are  suspended,  if  not  done 
away. 

It  was  in  the  smoking-room  of  the  Crimea  that 


TO  HONOR.  133 


Sir  George  Beevor  and  Mr.  Dobson  met  half  an 
hour  after  the  scene  between  Mrs.  Tontine  and 
Adela.  The  latter  had  sought  refuge  in  her  state 
room,  and  the  ship  was  nearing  Queenstown,  in 
full  sight  of  the  emerald  shore. 

"  I  think  these  Americans,"  said  Sir  George 
meditatively,  knocking  the  ashes  from  the  end  of 
his  cigar,  " '  do  beat  all  nature/  as  they  say  them 
selves,  in  their  manners  and  customs." 

Any  observer  knows  that  an  Englishman  who 
quotes  the  slang  of  America  adopts  specimens  of 
the  strongest  kind,  acquired  from  the  "  Sam  Slick" 
papers  in  "  Blackwood,"  written  forty  years  since, 
or  Bird  o'  Freedom  Sawin.  "  Catavvompously 
chawed  up,"  for  example,  is,  we  understand,  held 
in  England  to  be  a  common  household  expres 
sion  in  America.  Provincialisms  exist,  of  course, 
in  all  parts  of  our  country,  and  distinguish  the 
many  nationalities  that  find  shelter  under  our 
.  Stripes  and  Stars ;  but  slang  is  ever  shifting. 
The  versatile  American  invents  a  bold,  strong 
word  to  suit  the  purpose  of  the  moment ;  and 
when  the  occasion  is  past,  it  drops  out  of  the 
popular  vocabulary  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  ap 
peared  in  it.  Which  of  us  now-a-days  employs, 
the  word  "  skedaddle,"  unless  he  be  an  English 
man,  trying  to  appear  an  fait  in  the  idioms  of 
our  late  war  ? 

"  Did  you  ever  walk  into  your  own  sanctum, 


134  SALVAGE. 

after  some  officious  hand  had  been  putting  it  to 
rights,"  said  Dobson,  "  and  find  yourself  startled 
by  small  changes  in  its  arrangements,  whereas, 
were  you  entering  the  room  for  the  first  time, 
these  little  things  would  not  have  caught  your 
notice.  It  is  just  so  with  Americans  and  Eng 
lishmen.  They  are  so  much  alike  that  every 
difference  tells." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  allude  to  points  of  nation 
ality,  exactly,"  said  Sir  George.  "  It  is  the  tone  of 
things  around  me  on  one  subject  that  surprises 
me,  as  shown  even  in  the  limited  society  of  this 
steamer.  That  Mrs.  Tontine  — 

"The  Widow  Tontine  is  vulgar,"  broke  in  Mr. 
Offley.  "  You  must  not  take  her  as  a  specimen 
of  the  well-bred  American  lady.  That  you  may 
find  in  Mrs.  Wolcott.  Mrs.  Tontine  was  a  New 
York  belle  in  her  youth  ;  and  if  that  does  not 
graduate  a  woman  in  vulgarity,  nothing  else  will. 
To  attain  eminence  as  a  belle  at  Springs  and 
watering  places  a  girl  must  put  up  with  loss  of 
privacy  and  loss  of  delicacy,  and  be  willing  to  ac 
cept  the  homage  of  all  sorts  and  conditions  of 
men  ;  she  must  smile  on  those  she  cannot  but 
.despise,  and  laugh  with  those  she  hates,  and  jilt 
the  man  she  loves  and  marry  the  man  she  loathes. 
And  that  's  the  history  of  Mrs.  Tontine  ! " 

"But  such  notions  of  divorce,"  persisted  Sir 
George,   "seem    hardly  credible.      Here   is   the 


TO  HONOR.  135 


traveller  Wolcott,  a  man  who  impressed  me  most 
favorably  in  his  book,  and  a  lady  who,  according 
to  your  own  account,  is  a  favorable  specimen  of 
what  is  best  in  American  society,  applying  for 
divorce,  and  people  talking  of  it  —  actually  before 
the  lady's  face  —  and  speculating  as  to  whom  she 
will  next  marry,  as  if  such  pussy-wants-a-corner 
work  was  a  thing  that  could  astonish  no  one.  in 
American  good  society.  It  strikes  me  very 
strangely." 

"  There  are  such  instances,  of  course,"  said 
Offley,  "and  you  have  chanced  on  one,  Sir  George  ; 
but  you  won't  meet  with  a  divorce  case  every 
day  in  your  travels  in  America." 

"But" tell  me,"  said  Sir  George,  "will  this  poor 
lady,  Mrs.  Wolcott,  hold  such  a  position  in  socie 
ty,  after  her  divorce,  as  Mrs.  Tontine  seems  to 
predict  she  will  ?  Won't  she  be  rather  —  under 
a  cloud,  I  mean  ?  Won't  people,  '  be  she  as 
chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as  snow,'  attach  some  blame 
to  her  ? " 

"  Blame  to  her!"  cried  Mr.  Dobson,  with  a  sud 
den  burst  of  energy,  which,  for  a  moment,  rather 
surprised  the  other  two. 

"  I  hardly  think  they  will,"  said  Offley,  "  unless 
the  divorce  case  brings  out  something.  Of  course, 
if  a  man  wants  to  divorce  his  wife,  it  is  the 
business  of  his  lawyer  to  make  it  as  bad  as  he 
can  for  her ;  and  in  this  case,  the  parties  being 


136  SALVAGE. 

so  widely  known,  it  will  be  the  interest  of  the 
newspaper  men  to  make  the  most  of  their  affairs 
for  the  amusement  of  the  public.  I  expect  to  see 
nothing  but  '  The  Great  Wolcott  Divorce  Case,' 
for  .several  weeks  after  I  get  home." 

"  Good  heaven!  And  her  name,  of  course,  on 
everybody's  tongue  !  Can  this  disgrace  be 
brought,  without  a  cause,  upon  a  woman  by  a 
man  who  put  his  honor  in  her  hands,  who  vowed 
to  love  and  uphold  and  cherish  her?"  cried 
Sir  George,  with  indignation.  "  What  is  one  to 
think  of  a  man  willing  to  drag  a  woman  through 
the  publicity  —  if  not  the  foulness  —  of  a  thing 
of  this  kind  ?  " 

There  was  something  in  Joseph  Dobson's  eyes 
so  very  fierce  that  Sir  George  stopped  suddenly. 

"  Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "  for  forgetting  that 
Colonel  Wolcott  is  your  friend.  You  met  him  in 
the  East,  I  think  you  told  me.  But  all  this 
seems  to  me  so  very  strange,  you  know." 

At  that  moment  Harrie  Tontine's  sharp  face 
loomed  through  the  thick  atmosphere  of  the 
smoking-room. 

"  Mr.  Offley !  Mr.  Offley  !  "  she  cried  shrilly. 
"  You  said  you  'd  come  and  teach  me  how  to  hop 
along  the  deck,  when  you  had  done  your  lunch 
eon,  and  I  've  been  waiting  for  you  ever  so  long." 

"  I  '11  come  when  I  have  done  my  smoke,  Miss 
Harrie,"  said  Offley. 


TO  HONOR.  137 


"  No,  I  want  you  to  come  now.  Come  right 
away  !  "  commanded  Harrie. 

"Look  here!"  said  one  of  the  officers  of  the 
ship,  "  this  is  not  a  place  for  little  girls.  Ladies, 
Miss  Harrie,  are  not  allowed  in  the  smoking- 
room." 

"  Oh  !  "  said  Harrie,  "  I  don't  object  to  smoke. 
I  think  I  shall  often  come." 

"  I  wish  some  philanthropist  out  of  employ 
ment  would  get  up  a  society  for  the  protection  of 
grown-up  Americans  from  other  people's  chil 
dren,"  muttered  Offley. 

"  Ah !  that  's  what  we  all  need,  and  what  we 
shall  get  less  and  less  of,  as  mothers  enlarge  their 
rights  and  spheres,"  said  one  of  the  party. 

"  Well,  now,"  said  a  reactionist  from  Puritan 
ism,  a  philosopher  of  the  New  England  school, 
"  it  has  always  appeared  to  me  that  if  parents 
persist  in  repressing  a  spirit  of  investigation,  they 
stunt  their  children's  intellectual  growth." 

"  Not  a  bit  more  so,  my  dear  sir,  than  you  in 
jure  your  vines  by  trimming  off  their  shoots. 
Shorten  the  twig  and  you  improve  the  fruit.  It 
is  a.  question  with  me  whether  intellectual  de 
velopment  be  the  highest  consideration  in  form 
ing  men  and  women  ;  for  the  highest  development, 
I  take  it,  should  consist  in  making  the  human 
creature  as  perfect  as  possible  to  the  limit  of  his 
capacity.  You  must  bring  out  all  that  lies  latent 


138  SALVAGE. 


in  the  man  himself,  and  make  the  most  of  it,  — 
cultivate  his  heart,  his  intellect,  and  his  bodily 
frame." 

The  speaker  was  one  of  those  obnoxious  per 
sons  who,  at  unsuitable  times  and  especially  on 
shipboard,  love  to  enunciate  sonorous  platitudes 
as  if  they  were  discoveries,  and  to  provoke  long- 
winded  discussions. 

By  this  time  Harrie  Tontine  was  established 
on  a  table,  wriggling  her  unshapely  legs,  and  try 
ing  to  get  Offley  to  let  her  have  a  puff  at  his 
cigar. 

Colonel  Wolcott  gazed  at  her  with  compassion 
and  horror. 

"And  that  child,"  he  thought,  "that  dreadful 
little  imp,  with  apparently  no  instincts  of  her 
sex  or  age,  might  be  my  own  daughter  had  I 
married  the  woman  on  whom  I  threw  my  raw, 
boyish  love  away  !  " 

"  You  were  talking  of  Mrs.  Wolcott  just  now," 
said  the  Crimea's  officer.  "  She  came  out  with 
us  last  voyage,  and  had  with  her  one  of  the  finest 
little  boys  I  ever  saw  in  all  my  life.  The  little  fel 
low  was  all  over  the  ship,  and  wherever  he  went 
it  was  a  pleasure  to  see  him.  He  was  a  child 
brought  up  never  to  be  an  offence  to  other  peo 
ple.  Full  of  his  questions,  —  but  then  they  were 
intelligent  questions,  that  led  to  something;  and 
he  was  eager  to  listen  to  whatever  you  had  to  say 


TO  HONOR.  139 


in  reply.  Listening  is  what  makes  children's 
minds  grow,  Miss  Harrie  ;  don't  you  know  that  ? 
That 's  what  you  have  two  ears  for." 

"  Mamma  says  that  Lance  Wolcott  is  going  to 
be  immensely  rich  ;  and  when  I  grow  up  I  mean 
to  marry  him,"  said  Miss  Harrie  positively. 

"  Marry  Lance  Wolcott !  Heaven  forbid  !  " 
cried  Mr.  Dobson  with  energy. 

•"You'll  have  to  learn  to  be  real  nice,  Miss 
Harrie,  'fore  dat  time  come,"  remarked  Mel,  who 
was  passing  through  the  smoking-room,  giving  a 
wink  to  his  master.  "  My  Mas'  Lance  Wolcott 
ain't  for  any  little  lady  who  sits  cross-legged  on 
a  table  afore  gentlemen  in  a  smoking-room." 

Harrie  flared  up. 

•  "  I  am  good  enough  for  Lance  Wolcott  any 
day  in  the  week,"  she  cried.  "And  what's  more, 
my  mamma's  maid,  that  we  left  in  England,  says 
my  mamma  is  going  to  marry  his  papa  after  he 
gets  a  divorce  and  she  gets  home  ! " 

A  roar  of  laughter  from  the  men  around 
greeted  this  communication. 

"  Tell  us  some  more,  Harrie  !  This  is  rich  !  " 
cried  several  of  the  young  men  in  the  smoking- 
room,  whose  sense  of  honor  was  not  fully  grown. 

Mortified,  indignant,  ashamed  of  himself  and  of 
his  own  position,  Colonel  Wolcott  flung  away  his 
cigar  and  quitted  their  company. 


140  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

TO    CHERISH. 

And  I  rehearsed  my  marriage  vow, 
And  swore  her  welfare  to  prefer 

To  all  things,  and  for  aye  as  now 
To  live  not  for  myself,  but  her. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE,  The  Espousals. 

IX/TEANTIME  Adela  Wolcott,  aglow  with  the 
-*-*-*1  excitement  of  her  conversation  with  her 
husband,  and  her  subsequent  encounter  with 
Mrs.  Tontine,  went  down  into  her  state-room. 
There  she  flung  herself  upon  a  seat  beside  the 
bed,  clasped  her  hands  over  her  face,  and  hid  it 
in  the  pillows. 

Doubts,  fears,  and  emotions  tossed  her  to  and 
fro,  till  her  whole  soul  seemed  like  a  troubled 
sea.  What  did  her  husband  mean  by  all  he 
had  said  to  her  ?  His  incognito  was  the  incog 
nito  of  a  royal  personage,  meant  only  to  mislead 
those  whom  it  was  convenient  to  deceive.  It  was 
not  to  hide  him  from  herself,  that  was  certain. 
Did  it  hide  him  from  others  ?  Did  it  hide  him 
from  Mrs.  Tontine  ? 

He  had  said,  "All  hangs  upon  the  next  two 


TO  CHERISH.  141 


weeks  with  me.  I  may  go  abroad  forever  and 
become  an  Asiatic.  I  may  take  the  dusky 
woman  for  my  companion,  in  my  despair.  If  I 
am  wrecked,  adrift,  why  not  ?  This  is  a  crisis 
in  my  life.  Many  years  ago  I  wrecked  myself, 
and  lost  what  might  have  made  me  now  a  good 
and  happy  man.  Not  many  hours  since  I  saw 
the  chance  of  winning  back  my  blessings.  A 
few  days  will  decide  my  fate." 

But  did  this  really  mean,  as  it  had  at  first 
seemed,  that  he  was  asking  her  consent  to  the 
divorce  in  order  to  regain  lost  happiness  by  mar 
rying  his  first  love  ?  Was  she  not  wronging  and 
dishonoring  her  husband  by  imagining  him  capa 
ble  of  the  trickery  of  wresting  her  words  to  his 
own  advantage,  and  bribing  her  to  wrong  her 
sense  of  right  by  offering  her  the  custody  of 
Lance  if  she  withdrew  all  opposition  to  his  sec 
ond  marriage  ? 

The  situation,  as  she  conceived  it,  was  that  he 
had  proposed  divorce,  through  Mr.  Deane,  to  her 
self  and  to  her  family  ;  that  he  had  been  advised 
that  she  intended  to  oppose  it ;  and  that  he  was 
now  anxious,  under  the  partial  shelter  of  an 
assumed  name,  to  conduct  in  person  a  negotia 
tion  which  might  induce  her  to  consent  to  an 
amicable  compromise.  She  had  no  idea  that  the 
only  news  he  had  received  from  Mr.  Deane  was 
the  result  of  that  lawyer's  first  interview  with  Mr. 


142  SALVAGE. 


Engels,  which  had  never  been  fully  made  known 
to  her ;  and  that  the  lawyer  had  informed  his 
client  that  his  wife  and  her  family  were  as  ready 
as  he  could  be  to  break  off  the  marriage. 

Doubtless  he  had  come  on  board  incognito  to 
make  the  voyage  with  the  woman  whom  he  loved 
and  lost  before  he  had  ever  known  herself.  A 
woman's  theories,  when  she  makes  up  her  mind 
not  to  trust  her  inspirations,  usually  deceive 
her. 

The  notion  that  Mrs.  Tontine  was  his  object, 
that  the  desire  to  be  in  her  company  without 
scandal  had  brought  him  on  board  the  Crimea, 
seemed  plausible  at  first ;  but  still,  as  she  thought 
it  over,  the  instinct  that  dictates  a  woman's  im 
pressions  before  she  has  had  time  to  bewilder 
herself  in  all  the/ray  and  cons  of  argument,  told 
her  differently.  A  line  from  Browning  shim 
mered  through  her  memory,  — 

"  Let 's  trust  the  motive  that  we  cannot  see." 

Might  not  his  motive  be  herself  ?  she  reflected. 
Was  it  not  more  consistent  with  the  character 
with  which  she  had  invested  him  ?  She  knew 
that  their  hearts  had  "beat  to  one  "measure"  as 
they  talked  of  little  Lance. 

"  And  yet  I  do  not  understand,"  she  inly  cried, 
"  what  he  can  mean  by  placing  me  and  himself 
in  our  present  position.  If  he  hated  or  de- 


TO  CHERISH.  143 


spised  me,  I  should  know  it  quickly  enough :  of 
that  I  am  certain.  My  impressions  are  accurate 
though  I  see  so  imperfectly.  He  must  know 
that  I  am  ready  —  ah  !  too  ready  —  to  respond 
to  any  word  of  reconciliation. 

"  The  law  people  have  talked  to  me  till  they 
have  made  me  so  suspicious,  so  afraid,  so  little 
like  myself,  that  I  hardly  know  what  I  am  doing. 
Oh,  how  I  wish  I  could  have  seen  his  eyes  when 
we  were  talking  on  the  deck!  But  there  were 
tones  in  his  voice,  and  his  breath  stirred  my  hair, 
and — O  Lancelot!  husband!  howl  could  love 
you,  live  for  you,  if  I  had  you  back  again !  I 
would  be  anything  you  pleased  if  you  would  —  if 
you  would  love  me  —  would  come  home,  give 
me  a  chance  to  show  —  " 

She  paused,  rose,  and  stood  for  a  moment,  with 
clear,  open  eyes  and  a  set  face,  looking  through 
her  port-hole  at  the  heavens.  Then,  as  the 
tears  rose  and  her  lip  trembled,  she  cast  down 
her  eyes,  clasped  both  her  hands,  and  said,  half 
whispering  to  herself,  — 

"  Nothing  will  bring  us  into  port  but  my  doing 
what  is  right,  —  nothing  but  following,  under 
Divine  direction,  the  straightforward  path.  There 
is  no  use  in  trying  to  change  things,  in  thinking 
that  one  could  be  happy  under  new  conditions. 
O  God,  make  Thy  way  plain  before  my  face  ! 
'  Tarry  thou  the  Lord's  leisure,'  is  His  own 


144  SALVAGE. 

counsel.  Some  day  I  shall  be  able  to  see  —  we 
both  shall,  perhaps  —  that  all  this  was  His  way 
of  blessing  us,  little  as  we  guessed  it." 

Occupied  by  these  reflections,  recalling  the 
past,  strengthening  herself  and  exonerating  her 
husband,  Adela  paid  little  attention  to  the  noises 
overhead,  which  betokened  that  something  was 
going  on  on  board  the  vessel. 

The  Crimea  had  entered  the  Cove  of  Cork, 
and  was  now  nearing  Queenstown. 

Glancing  through  her  port-hole,  she  saw  what 
seemed  a  lovely  picture  set  in  a  circular  frame. 
The  green  shore  was  not  far  off;  the  ribbon-like 
line  of  sandy  beach  lay  under  the  gradual  slope 
of  the  low  cliffs,  with  small  white  villas  gleam 
ing  through  their  greenery. 

Was  it  possible,  she  thought,  that  even  Lance's 
father  had  been  able  to  put  Lance  out  of  her 
thoughts,  —  that  she  had  entered  Queenstown 
harbor  without  once  recollecting  that  there 
she  was  to  meet  a  telegram,  telling  how  the 
child  bore  her  absence,  and  if  he  were  safe  and 
well  ? 

She  called  the  stewardess.  That  personage, 
Roxana  Young  by  name,  though  better  "raised" 
than  Mel,  who  had  been  country-bred  in  Georgia, 
was  pleased  to  permit  the  attentions' of  that  gen 
tleman  ;  and  there  were  love-passages  going  on 
every  day,  in  odd  corners  of  the  ship,  between 


TO  CHERISH.  145 


them.  Roxana  was  a  flirt?  by  nature,  tempera 
ment,  and  example,  having  been  brought  up  as 
maid  to  some  young  ladies  of  good  family.  She 
was  an  excellent  stewardess,  devoted  to  the  cap 
tain  and  the  ship,  faithful  to  her  duties,  tender, 
neat-handed,  and  intelligent ;  but,  notwithstand 
ing  the  various  wants  of  her  "  ladies,"  sick  or  well, 
she  found  time  and  opportunity  for  carrying  on 
with  Melchizedeck  her  favorite  pastime.  She 
would  have  been  lost  without  a  beau  to  "wait 
upon"  her:  never  had  she  been  without  one 
since  she  entered,  girlhood,  though  she  had  no 
particular  inclination  to  be  married,  and  indeed 
believed  firmly  in  "  wise  virgins."  She  was  not 
a  settled  woman,  as  she  owned.  Managing  the 
men  of  her  own  race  came  as  natural  to  her  as 
taking  care  of  helpless  passengers ;  and  life 
would  have  seemed  blank  to  her  without  white 
ladies  to  look  after  and  a  lover  of  her  own  color 
to  tyrannize  over.  Mel  was  lighter  of  hue  than 
herself,  being,  as  she  described  it  to  her  inti 
mates,  "  a  real  pretty  cream  color ;  "  but  while 
she  had  long  hair,  silky,  crimped,  and  glossy, 
his  was  frizzled,  like  the  wool  of  the  blackest 
negro.  It  was  a  sad  drawback  to  a  bright  mu 
latto  to  have  woolly  hair  ;  and  one  way  in  which 
Roxana  kept  her  hold  upon  Melchizedeck  was 
never  to  let  him  forget  her  sense  of  this  misfor 
tune. 

10 


146  SALVAGE. 


Mrs.  Wolcott  called  from  the  state-room,  and, 
giving  her  some  money,  said,  — 

"  Roxana,  when  the  ship  stops,  how  shall  I  get 
a  telegram  ?  I  expect  one  to  meet  me  at  Queens- 
town,  about  my  little  boy." 

"  I  don'  know  as  Captain  Moore  means  to  go 
up  .to  the  town,"  said  Roxana^  "  I  heard  him 
saying  that  he  did  not  want  to  lose  time,  and 
that  he  'd  rather  not  give  any  one  the  chance  to 
go  ashore.  I  'specs  he  '11  have  signalled  for  the 
tender  to  come  off  and  bring  aboard  the  mails 
and  passengers.  Then  at  the  same  time  they  '11 
send  the  telegrams." 

"Will  you  look  out  then,  Roxana,  and  bring 
me  mine  the  moment  that  it  comes  ?  "  said  Adela. 
"  I  cannot  go  down  to  the  gangway  myself,  and 
I  want  it  as  soon  as  possible  after  it  is  brought 
on  board." 

"Yes,  certainly  I  will,  Mrs.  Wolcott.  Jus'  you 
trust  me.  Won't  you  go  on  deck  yourself  now, 
and  see  the  harbor  of  Queenstown  ?  My  ladies 
always  thinks  it 's  a  pretty  sight  as  the  ship  runs 
in." 

"  No,  I  believe  not,  Roxana.  Bring  me  my  tele 
gram  here.  There  will  be  everybody  on  deck. 
So  many  people  ! " 

She  sat  down,  counting  each  beat  of  the  ma 
chinery,  which  kept  time  to  the  throbs  of  her 
own  heart,  and  for  a  little  while  all  thoughts  of 


TO  CHERISH.  147 


her  husband,  of  Cora  Noble,  the  divorce,  and  her 
present  position,  were  lost  in  a  sort  of  reac 
tionary  anxiety  for  news  of  the  child,  whom  she 
had  left  drowned  in  tears  the  day  before,  at  the 
house  of  a  Liverpool  clergyman,  whose  wife  was 
in  the  habit  of  taking  Indian  children  as  lodgers 
and  pupils. 


148  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

THE  TELEGRAM. 

A  shadow  seemed  to  rise 
From  out  her  thoughts,  and  turn  to  dreariness 
All  blissful  hopes. 

J.  R.  LOWELL,  Legend  of  Brittany. 

HPHE  wail  in  "The  Isle  of  Beauty"  — that 
•*•  farewell  song  to  England  which  is  almost 
a  national  anthem  —  is  for  "  one  green  leaf  to 
look  upon"  when  far  at  sea.  Nature  has  pro 
vided,  by  innumerable  varieties  of  green  (more 
than  four  hundred  shades,  they  say)  for  the  nat 
ural  craving  of  the  eyes  for  this  color.  The 
want  of  vivid  green  —  of  "  living  green,"  as  Isaac 
Watts  has  called  it  —  is  one  of  the  items  that 
make  up  the  sum  of  human  misery  in  a  sea- 
voyage.  No  sailor,  says  Ulysses,  but  begins  to 
yearn  for  land  when  he  has  been  a  week  at  sea. 
And  if  such  were  the  case  with  Greeks,  who 
never  ventured  long  out  of  sight  of  their  own 
coast,  how  much  more  true  is  it  of  ocean-going 
landsmen,  twenty-six  centuries  after  Homer  wrote, 


THE  TELEGRAM.  149 

disheartened  by  sea-sickness,  and  that  systematic 
compression  of  everything  which  is  one  of  the 
chief  discomforts  of  a  voyage  ? 

The  captain  had  already  stated,  at  dinner  and 
on  deck,  that  he  should  lay  to  only  long  enough 
to  take  in  mails  and  passengers.  He  did  not 
offer  anybody  facilities  forgoing  ashore  at  Queens- 
town.  Colonel  Wolcott's  chum,  however,  and  two 
other  men,  went  back  on  the  tender,  forfeiting 
their  passage-money  and  sticking  the  white 
feather  boldly  in  their  caps,  rather  than  endure 
any  longer  the  fate  of  all  landsmen  "who  go 
down  to  the  sea  in  ships,"  whose  "  souls  abhor 
all  manner  of  meat,  and  are  even  hard  at  death's 
door."  Mel  took  it  upon  himself  to  stimulate 
the  terrors  of  his  master's  room-mate,  being  very 
unwilling  that  Colonel  Wolcott's  dignity  should 
be  compromised  by  occupying  longer  a  state 
room  with  "  any  such  person." 

As  soon  as  the  tender  came  off  shore,  a  tele 
graphic  agent  made  his  appearance  on  the 
quarter-deck,  with  a  bundle  of  telegrams,  and  a 
book  to  be  signed  by  those  to  whom  they  were 
delivered,  —  a  precaution  adopted  at  that  period 
by  the  company,  to  secure  itself  from  too  much 
responsibility  in  the  hurry  of  delivery. 

Roxana,  faithful  to  her  promise,  was  in  waiting 
at  the  gangway  when  the  people  from  the  tender 
came  on  board,  not  aware  that  the  telegraph. 


150  SALVAGE. 


clerk,  being  amphibiously  bred  and  an  active  fel 
low,  had  for  sport  swung  himself  up  by  the  main 
chains  and  got  on  deck  without  the  accommoda 
tion  of  a  ladder. 

Mel  was  the  steward  appointed  to  assist  him 
in  the  delivery  of  his  messages,  and  followed 
him  about  to  distribute  them  to  passengers. 

"  One  for  Miss  Adela,"  he  said  in  a  confidential 
tone,  as  he  passed  Colonel  Wolcott. 

"  Hand  it  to  me,"  said  the  colonel,  on  the 
impulse  of  the  moment. 

"This  gen'leman's  her  husband,  so  it's  all 
right,"  said  Mel  to  the  clerk  who  held  the  book, 
and  put  the  telegram  into  his  master's  hand. 
It  ran  thus  :  — 

MRS.   WOLCOTT,  CRIMEA,  —  Colonel   Wolcott   on   board.     Better 
land.    Go  to  hotel.     Take  next  steamer.     Will  meet  you  to-morrow. 
CHARLES  SMITH,  of  Smith  &  Griffiths. 

"Sign  for  it,  sir,  if  you  please,"  said  the  clerk 
impatiently. 

"All  right,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott,  and  signed 
with  his  own  name. 

The  pause  was  a  very  orief  one.  Presently  the 
Crimea  was  panting  on  her  path  again.  Before 
Adela  had  exhausted  reasonable  patience,  she 
saw  from  her  port-hole  the  little  tender  parting 
company  With  the  ship,  and  all  communication 
with  the  land  that  held  her  boy,  cut  off  for  ten 
long  days  to  come.  She  rushed  to  the  deck, 


THE  TELEGRAM.  1 5 1 

sending  a  steward  whom  she  met  to  find  Roxana, 
who  had  already  gone  up  to  the  telegraph  clerk 
and  asked  if  he  had  a  telegram  for  Mrs.  Wolcott, 
one  of  her  ladies. 

"Yes  —  no.  All  right  it  is,  Miss  Young," 
said  Mel,  who  stood  holding  the  telegrams  for 
distribution.  "Dat  ar 's  all  right,  dat  sartain 
sure  !  Nebber  you  done  trouble  yo'self.  I  '11 
fix  that  telegram.  You  don't  need  to  think  no 
more  'bout  it.  All  right,  sure." 

"  Stop  talking,  Mr.  Quin.  A  lady  wants  it. 
It 's  about  her  little  boy  she 's  left  behind  in 
Liverpool.  The  child  was  half  sick  when-  she 
came  off  to  us,  an'  she  's  a'most  worried  to  death 
about  him  since  we  started." 

"  Now  see  here,  Miss  Roxana,  you  go  right 
down  to  Miss  Adela,  an'  I  bring  you  her  telegram. 
Wait  by  my  pantry  door.  We 's  hard  times 
readin'  all  de  names,  we  've  got  such  a  lot  dis 
mornin'." 

Roxana  repressed  a  remark  about  her  certainty 
that  there  were  no  names  he  could  read  ;  for  it 
was  not  consistent  with  her  dignity  to  disparage 
in  public  the  intellectual  attainments  of  her  lover. 
She  had  a  comfortable  conviction  also  that  Mel 
would  do  his  best  for  her  in  any  emergency,  and 
was  not  aware  that  in  this  matter  an  influence 
more  potent  than  her  own  was  strong  upon  him. 
So  she  waited  by  the  pantry  door  till  he  joined  her. 


152  SALVAGE. 


"  Where  's  my  telegram,  Mr.  Quin  ? "  said 
Roxana. 

"  See  yere,  Miss  Young,"  said  Melchizedeck, 
"  don'  you  say  a  word  now,  'cos  I  have  n't  got  no 
telegram  for  Mrs.  Wolcott, —  my  Miss  Adela." 

"  No  telegram  !  She  made  so  sure  of  one. 
Was  n't  there  none  ?  I  '11  go  and  ask  the  clerk 
myself.  Whatever  did  you  keep  me  foolin'  round 
this  door  for,  waitin"  for  you  ?  " 

"  No,  no !  Don'  go  now,  Miss  Roxie.  You 
see,  it 's  too  late  anyhow.  Done  cast  de  tender 
off  'fore  I  left  de  deck  an'  done  come  here  for 
you." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  there  was  n't 
nothing  for  her?  She'll  be  ready  to  cry  her 
eyes  out  —  and  she's  cried  enough  already,  poor 
thing.  I  said  I  'd  ask  for  it  myself.  That's 
what  comes  of  trusting  you,  Mel  Quin !  Any 
nigger  with  wool  like  you 's  got  has  nebber 
got  no  sense  in  his  head.  I  '11  have  no  more  to 
do  with  you." 

"  O  Miss  Roxie,  you  is  a  talkin'  now,  is  n't 
you  ?  "  said  Mel,  trying  to  get  hold  of  the  reluct 
ant  taper  fingers.  "  Well,  if  you  won't  tell  no 
one,  I  '11  tell  you.  Dere  was  a  telegram,  an' 
somebody  as  wants  to  gib  it  her  himself  has  got 
it.  There  now  !  " 

"  Who 's  that  ?  Who  signed  the  book  for  it  ? 
You  've  got  no  business,  Mr.  Quin,  a  foolin' 


THE  TELEGRAM.  153 

about  telegrams.  You  better  done  let  such  im 
portant  things  alone.  Who  is  it  has  got  that 
telegram  ?  You  tell  me,  or  I  '11  go  right  off 
an'  inform  Mrs.  Wolcott  an'  the  captain.  That's 
what  I  '11  do." 

"  No,  don't  yer,  Miss  Roxie  !  Hear  me  ask 
yer,  please  don't  now.  Don't  make  no  fuss  at 
all  'bout  it.  Let  'em  done  fix  it  dere  own  way. 
It 's  all  gwine  to  come  right.  You  done  let  de 
telegram  alone.  Jus'  do  as  I  asks  you  for  a  bit. 
I  knows  all  'bout  it.  'Specs  you  does  n't  know." 

"  Who  's  got  it  then  ?  Tell  me  !  Is  it  that 
Dobson  that  keeps  eying  her  ?  Tells  yer  what, 
Melchizedeck  Quin,  I  ain't  used  to  have  no  gen 
tlemen  like  that  fooliri'  roun'  any  my  ladies.  My 
ladies  don't  have  nothin'  to  do  with  folks  which 
has  false  names,  like  that  Dobson.  Everything 
'bout  them  is  fust-class,  an'  full  price  an'  respect 
able." 

"  Hush  !  hush  !  Now,  do  hush,  Roxie  !  Jus' 
you  lets  'em  by  'mselves  a  bit.  Tell  you 
deys  more  to  one  'nother  dan  you  thinks  for* 
You  trust  me.  I  known  him  all  his  life.  Known 
him  when  he  come  aboard.  Known  him  ebber 
sense  he  was  a  little  boy.  Known  him  before 
de  war.  Come,  now !  I  done  raised  with 
him  ! " 

Roxana  opened  her  eyes.  Mel  saw  he  had 
made  an  impression.  He  nodded  his  head  rap- 


154  SALVAGE. 


idly,  and  was  just  about  to  close  the  conversa 
tion  with  a  kiss  when  Harrie  Tontine,  who, 
unperceived,  had  been  stealing  raisins  in  the 
pantry,  dropped  a  spoon.  Roxana,  startled  by 
the  noise,  hurried  down  into  the  ladies'  cabin, 
while  Mel  turned  to  defend  the  steward's  stores, 
and  to  reprimand  the  marauder,  who,  with  a 
shriek  of  laughter,  flew  past  him,  slamming  the 
pantry  door  and  rushing  down  into  her  mother's 
state-room,  where  she  breathlessly  reported  that 
Mr.  Dobson  had  got  hold  of  Mrs.  Wolcott's  tele 
gram  and  would  not  give  it  up,  adding  that  one 
of  the  stewards  had  been  making  love  to  the 
stewardess, -and  had  said  he'd  known  Dobson 
when  he  came  on  board  in  spite  of  his  false 
name,  had  known  him  ever  since  he  was  a 
boy,  and  had  been  brought  up  with  him. 

The  latter  part  of  this  information  made  little 
impression  on  Mrs.  Tontine  at  the  time,  but 
subsequently,  when,  to  use  her  own  expression, 
she  "  came  to  think  it  over  and  put  two  and  two 
together,"  she  remembered  it. 

When  Adela  reached  the  guards,  the  tender 
was  a  cable's  length  from  the  Crimea,  which 
was  already  beginning  to  move  seaward.  Adela 
darted  up  to  the  first  officer. 

"  Mr.  Adkins,  did  no  telegrams  come  off  from 
Queenstown  ?  There  should  have  been  one  for 
me." 


THE  TELEGRAM.  155 

"  I  cannot  say,  Mrs.  Wolcott.  Mr.  Wood, 
where 's  the  steward  that  had  charge  of  the  man 
from  the  telegraph  office  ?  " 

"  What 's  that,  Mr.  Adkins  ?  "  asked  the  cap 
tain,  from  the  bridge.  The  captain  always  had 
an  eye  and  ear  for  any  want  or  wish  of  Peter 
Engels's  daughter. 

"  Mrs.  Wolcott,  sir,  expected  a  telegram  at 
Queenstown." 

"  A  telegram  about  my  little  boy,  Captain," 
cried  Adela. 

The  captain  raised  his  speaking  trumpet : 
"  Tender  ahoy !  Was  there  any  telegram  for 
Mrs.  Wolcott  ?  " 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  came  the  reply. 

"  What  did  you  do  with  it  ?  " 

"Gentleman  signed  for  it,  —  her "  The 

words  that  followed  sounded  like  "her  hus 
band." 

"The  fool  has  made  some  blunder,"  said  the 
captain.  "He  has  given  it  to  the  wrong  man. 
Send  for  the  steward  who  had  him  in  charge. 
It  is  on  board,  of  course.  We  '11  have  it  for  you 
in  a  moment,  Mrs.  Wolcott.  Here,  you  Quin, 
who  's  got  the  telegram  for  this  lady  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  sah !  Stewardess  was  looking  for 
her." 

"  Roxana,  have  you  ? "  said  Mrs.  Wolcott,  as 
at  that  moment  she  perceived  Roxana  in  the 
companion-way. 


156  SALVAGE. 


Roxana  shook  her  head,  and  darted  a  look 
of  furious  reproach  at  MeL,  who  dodged  out  of 
sight  as  rapidly  as  possible. 

Adela  turned  deadly  pale. 

"  Mr.  Dobson  —  he  has  got  it,  Mrs.  Wolcott," 
whispered  Roxana. 

"  Did  n't  some  one  say  Dobson  had  gone 
ashore  ?  "  said  a  bystander.  « 

Adela  turned  sick  with  apprehension.  She 
understood  it  now.  Her  husband  had  fooled 
her.  He  had  got  possession  of  her  child.  He 
had  intercepted  the  telegram,  and  had  landed  at 
Queenstown  to  return  to  Liverpool. 

Adela  was  not  Griselda.  She  was  not  capable 
of  patiently  sacrificing  her  child  for  any  husband. 

"No  matter,  Captain  Moore,"  she  said,  with 
an  instinct  that  at  least  she  must  preserve  her 
dignity.  "  Be  so  good  as  to  say  no  more  about 
my  telegram." 

But  she  trembled  till  she  could  hardly  stand. 

"  You  are  ill,  Mrs.  Wolcott  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  very  well.  The  motion  is  too 
much  for  me.  I  will  go  into  the  cabin." 

Pausing  again,  before  she  turned  to  go  down 
the  companion,  she  said  piteously,  "  You  could 
not  put  me  ashore,  Captain,  in  a  little  boat  ? " 

"  No,  my  dear  madam,"  he  replied,  "  that 
would  be  quite  out  of  my  power.  It 's  a  wild 
coast.  The  sea  and  wind  are  rising.  We  are 


THE  TELEGRAM.  157 

going  to  have  a  blow.  Has  anything  gone  wrong 
with  you,  Mrs.  Wolcott  ?  The  telegram  must 
be  on  board.  The  third  officer  shall  make  it  his 
business  to  look  it  up.  I  do  not  think  anything 
can  be  the  matter  with  the  little  boy." 

"  No,  Captain  ;  say  no  more  about  my  message. 
I  know  who  has  it.  The  man  landed  at  Queens- 
town.  I —  I  shall  be  all  right  when  I  get  down 
to  my  state-room." 

"  It  is  getting  too  rough  even  for  so  good  a 
sailor  as  you  are,  Mrs.'  Wolcott,"  the  captain  said, 
as  he  helped  her  with  a  sailor's  tenderness  down 
the  companion-way.  He  put  her  under  Roxana's 
care,  and  returning  upon  deck  found  his  passen 
gers  and  officers  in  great  excitement.  A  little 
steam-tug  had  put  off  from  the  pier  at  Queens- 
town  as  soon  as  the  tender  had  got  back,  and, 
notwithstanding  the  disparity  of  size,  was  impu 
dently  giving  chase  to  the  proud  and  beautiful 
Crimea. 


158  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

AT   LAST. 

Somewhere,  somehow,  when  we  two  meet  again, 
How  much  must  we  forget,  how  much  remember  I 

LADY  CHARLOTTE  ELLIOT. 

"\T  7HEN  Captain  Moore  caught  sight  of  the 

*  *    tug  in  chase,  he  was  exceedingly  annoyed. 

"  We  have  lost  time  already,"  he  said.  "  I  am 
not  going  to  bring  to  for  any  one.  They  can't 
force  me  to  bring  to  if  I  get  three  miles  out  to 
sea,  even  if  they  have  a  warrant  and  an  officer 
for  any  man  on  board." 

"  What  is  it,  Captain  ?  "  cried  a  dozen  passen 
gers. 

"I  suppose  they  want  to  overhaul  us  and  find 
some  thief  or  other.  I  sha'n't  let  them,  however. 
They  can  telegraph  to  the  police  in  New  York, 
and  keep  a  lookout  for  him  at  the  other  end  of 
the  ferry.  We  might  lose  several  hours,  and  I 
want  to  be  well  off  the  land  while  we  have  day 
light.  If  she  comes  near  enough  to  speak,  we 
may  hear  what  she  has  to  say." 

The  little  tug   travelled   bravely.      She   was 


AT  LAST.  159 

crowding  on  steam.  The  passengers  all  watched 
her  from  the  deck  of  the  Crimea.  Glasses  were 
levelled  at  her.  Colonel  Wolcott,  who  had  gone 
below  to  right  his  state-room  after  the  departure 
of  his  chum  at  Queenstown,  signed  to  Mel,  who 
brought  him  a  very  powerful  glass  out  of  the  cap 
tain's  cabin.  He  made  out  the  tug's  errand  in  a 
moment,  for  he  saw  Adela's  travelling  companion, 
the  London  lawyer,  upon  the  bridge. 

Mr.  Smith,  as  he  at  once  suspected,  had 
reached  Queenstown  just  in  time  to  see  his  sig 
nature  in  the  book  of  the  telegraph  man,  and  to 
discover  that  he  instead  of  his  wife  had  received 
the  message.  He  was  now  doing  the  best  he 
could  for  Mrs.  Wolcott,  by  coming  off  to  put  her 
on  her  guard,  or,  if  she  thought  it  best,  to  take 
her  out  of  the  Crimea. 

For  a  few  moments  Colonel  Wolcott  hesitated 
what  to  do.  Captain  and  officers  were  glancing 
at  him  suspiciously.  He  was  the  Jonah  whose 
misdeeds  might  obstruct  the  ship's  voyage.  All 
knew  by  this  time  that  he  was  not  "Dobson." 

Adela,  below,  had  been  roused  by  Mrs.  Ton 
tine,  who  came  into  the  state-room  to  inquire  if 
she  had  got  her  telegram  yet ;  adding,  "  Oh !  I 
supposed  from  what  he  said  that,  after  all  the  fuss, 
he  would  have  handed  it  to  you." 

She  sharply  watched  the  "effect  of  this  speech 
on  Adela,  but  it  provoked  no  reply,  though  she 


160  SALVAGE. 

could  see  that  it  had  struck  home,  by  a  flush  on 
the  cheeks  of  the  victim. 

That  Mrs.  Wolcott  had  not  asked  who  might 
be  meant  by  "  he  "  confirmed  Mrs.  Tontine  in  the 
suspicion  she  had  begun  to  entertain  that  "  Dob- 
•son  "  might  be  Colonel  Wolcott. 

Mrs.  Tontine  left  Adela  watching  from  her 
port-hole  the  little  tug  dancing  in  the  long  white 
wake  of  the  big  steamer,  and,  going  upon  deck, 
joined  the  other  passengers.  The  horrid  Ton 
tine  child,  to  whom  Dobson  was  an  object  of 
curiosity,  got  close  to  him,  and  stared  up  into  his 
face  steadily. 

"By  Heaven  !"  he  thought,  "she  glares  at  me 
till  she  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  had  committed  a 
burglary.  I  must  put  some  kind  of  stop  to  this 
suspicion." 

He  walked  up  to  the  captain. 

"  Captain  Moore,"  he  said,  "  can  you  spare  me 
your  attention  ? " 

"Of  course,  sir  —  for  a  few  moments — yes, 
sir,"  said  the  captain.  "  Mr.  Adkins,  sir,  set  the 
main  course,  and  show  her  a  clean  pair  of  heels. 
Now,  if  you  please,  Mr.  —  Dobson." 

And  he  led  the  way  into  the  small  closet,  where 
as  we  have  already  said,  he  kept  his  papers  and 
worked  up  his  observations.  There  was  a  cush 
ioned  locker  in  this  den  and  some  shelves  with 
books  and  bottles. 


AT  LAST.  l6l 

"  Now,  sir  !  "  he  said  sternly. 

"  Captain,  I  suspect  that  the  errand  of  that 
boat  has  something  to  do  with  me,"  said  Colonel 
Wolcott,  feeling  his  situation  an  extremely  awk 
ward  one. 

"  I  am  not  surprised  to  hear  it,  sir.  We  know 
that  you  are  travelling  under  a  false  name,"  said 
the  captain  stiffly. 

"  My  real  name  is  Wolcott, —  Colonel  Lance 
lot  Wolcott.  You  have  my  wife  on  board.  She 
and  my  son  made  the  last  trip  with  you.  You 
may  have  heard  of  me  as  an  Eastern  traveller." 

"  You  don't  tell  me  you  are  Colonel  Wolcott  ? 
Bless  me,  Colonel  —  why,  I  have  got  your  book  !  " 
fumbling  for  it  under  the  cushions  of  the  locker. 
"But  now  I  think  of  it  — "  he  added,  a  new 
idea  occurring  to  him,  he  resumed  his  caution, 
reflecting  he  might  yet  be  the  victim  of  an  impo 
sition  ;  and  lifting  the  lid  of  the  locker,  pulled 
out  some  papers. 

"  There  is  your  picture,  sir,"  he  said  sternly. 
"That  gentleman,  Colonel  Wolcott,  —  you  see 
his  name  plainly  printed  underneath,  —  has 
hardly  a  hair  on  his  skull." 

"  Here  is  my  passport,  Captain,"  said  the 
colonel,  "which  I  have  been  travelling  with  ever 
since  I  left  Constantinople.  You  can  judge  if  I 
correspond  with  my  official  description.  That 
woodcut  in  the  '  Illustration '  is  a  mistake.  It 
ii 


162  SALVAGE. 

is  the  portrait  of  an  old  friend  of  mine  in  the 
Khedive's  army.  If  you  want  further  proof,  you 
have  a  lad  here,  born  in  Georgia  on  my  own 
plantation,  who  has  recognized  me,  and  here  is  a 
telegram .  addressed  to  my  wife,  which  tells  her 
that  I  am  on  board." 

"  Ah  !  poor  lady  —  her  telegram,"  said  the  cap 
tain,  holding  out  his  hand  for  it.  "  Nothing  about 
her  boy.  Well,  Colonel  Wolcott,  -that  makes  it 
all  right,  of  course.  •  I  am  happy  to  know  you. 
So  that  boat  yonder  has  nothing  to  do  in  any  way 
with  you." 

"  Captain  Moore,"  said  Wolcott  gravely,  "  are 
you  a  married  man  ? " 

"  Yes,  indeed.  I  have  Mrs.  Moore  and  five 
children  to  provide  for." 

"  Then  I  think  I  may  appeal  to  you.  I  had 
not- seen  Mrs.  Wolcott  for  nine  years  when  I  met 
her  in  a  railway  carriage  coming  down  to  Liver 
pool.  She  did  not  know  me.  Her  lawyer,  Mr. 
Smith,  who  is  standing  yonder  on  the  bridge  of 
that  tug,  was  travelling  with  her.  He  has  found 
me  out  since  we  left  Liverpool,  and  has  chartered 
that  boat  to  follow  and  take  her  off  this  steamer. 
Captain  —  I  am  half  ashamed  to  tell  you —  but  my 
lawyer  in  New  York,  six  weeks  ago,  got  instruc 
tions  from  me  to  institute  proceedings  for  a  di 
vorce  in  the  courts  of  Indiana  —  " 

"  Dear  me !  dear  me  !     Bless  us,  Colonel !     A 


AT  LAST.  163 

divorce  ? "  exclaimed  the  captain.  "  Let  me  ask 
you,  as  an  old  man,  Are  you  sure  you  are  not 
acting  under  some  wrong  impression  ?  Mrs. 
Wolcott  made  the  last  voyage  with  me.  I  was 
very  much  struck  by  her  as  a  most  estimable 
lady,  not  at  all  the  sort  of  lady  a  husband  would 
be  anxious  to  divorce, — a  most  admirable  lady. 
I  never  had  a  finer  on  any  ship  I  ever  had 
command  of ;  and,  indeed,  I  am  a  fair  judge, 
Colonel  Wolcott.  I  have  ladies  of  all  kinds  on 
board,  you  see." 

"  Captain,  you  make  me  more  ashamed  of  my 
self  than  I  was  before.  Not  one  word  can  be 
breathed  against  Mrs.  Wolcott.  The  fault  is  all 
my  own.  But  in  our  Western  States  almost  any 
incompatibility  of  disposition  or  of  temperament 
is  held  to  justify  the  dissolution  of  a  marriage. 
In  short,  Captain,  keep  my  secret  till  we  land  in 
America.  She  is  short-sighted.  I  am  travelling 
on  another  man's  ticket  and  under  his  name,  and 
I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  she  has  recognized 
me  or  not.  Hinder  that  fellow  in  the  boat  from 
coming  alongside,  give  me  a  fair  field  and  no 
favor  for  this  trip,  and  I  '11  engage  to  win  her 
back  before  we  enter  New  York  harbor." 

"  Please  God,  you  may,  Colonel !  "  said  the  cap 
tain  piously.  "  What  God  has  joined  together 
it  is  not  right  for  lawyers  and  legislatures  to  put 
asunder.  We  all,  I  suppose,  have  to  put  up  with 


1 64  SALVAGE. 

something  from  our  wives  ;  but  the  devil  in 
vented  this  divorce  business.  Slipping  the  cable 
the  moment  that  the  ship  begins  to  ride  uneasy  is 
not  what  I  call  good  seamanship.  I  wish  it  may 
come  right  for  you,  with  all  my  heart.  Mrs. 
Wolcott,  I  should  say,  is  a  lady  among  ten  thou 
sand,  worth  winning  and  worth  keeping." 

"Then,  Captain,  you  will  remember  that  my 
name  is  Dobson  for  the  next  two  weeks  ;  and 
you  will  keep  the  secret  I  have  told  you  ? " 

The -captain  nodded  his  head. 

"  And  you  will  give  me  any  facilities  you  can 
for  seeing  my  wife  ? " 

"  I  will  indeed,  sir." 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  spoken  to  you." 

"  It  was  much  the  best  thing  to  do.  We  now 
understand  each  other.  Take  an  old  man's  ad 
vice,  Colonel,  —  one  who  has  had  thirty  years' 
experience  in  matrimony.  Give  a  wide  berth  to 
lawyers  and  divorces.  A  man  ought  to  be  able 
to  settle  his  own  affairs  with  any  woman.  If  he 
gets  caught  in  a  matrimonial  squall,  let  him  make 
all  snug  and  take  in  sail  as  quick  as  possible. 
That 's  what  I  should  tell  him  if  he  consulted 
me.  Kiss  your  wife  and  make  it  up  with  her 
before  nightfall.  '  Let  not  the  sun  go  down  upon 
your  wrath.'  That 's  Bible  doctrine,  sir.  You 
have  her  at  an  a'dvantage,  don't  you  see  ?  Most 
women  will  be  ready  to  take  a  husband's  kiss  if 


AT  LAST.  165 

he  sets  about  it  the  right  way.  You  may  trust 
an  old  married  man's  experience  for  that,  —  and 
I  ought  to  know  the  ladies,  Colonel." 

When  they  reappeared  on  deck,  after  this  con 
ference,  they  found  that  by  extraordinary  exer 
tions  the  tug  had  gained  on  the  Crimea  so  far  as 
to  allow  persons  on  her  deck  to  be  distinctly 
visible.  The  captain  of  the  tug  attempted  a 
hail.  The  only  words  intelligible  were,  "  Crimea 
ahoy  !  Wolcott  —  Dobson  !  " 

"Ay,  ay!  We'll  attend  to  it!"  shouted  the 
Crimea's  captain.  "  Keep  her  away,  Mr.  Adkins  ! 
I  sha'n't  bring  to,  whatever  she  wants.  Keep  her 
away ! " 

By  this  time  the  main  course,  which  the  men 
had  been  getting  ready  on  the  deck,  was  in  its 
place,  and  the  Crimea  began  to  feel  the  breeze  as 
she  drew  off  the  land.  She  gave  a  plunge  and 
shook  herself,  flashing  the  copper  on  her  big  side 
out  of  the  brine,  and  slightly  altering  her  course 
as  she  dropped  a  parting  courtesy  to-  the  gallant 
little  vessel  behind  her.  The  tug,  seeing  that 
the  chase  was  now  past  hope,  dropped  astern  and 
prepared  to  steam  back  more  slowly  into  Queens- 
town. 

Colonel  Wolcott  stood  on  the  saloon-deck, 
watching  her.  The  sea  was  rising  rapidly,  the 
motion  of  the  ship  increasing ;  all  passengers 
had  disappeared  from  deck.  The  ship  was  work- 


1 66  SALVAGE. 


ing  round  Cork  Head.  There  was  a  moan  and 
flutter  in  the  shrouds  aloft,  a  sudden  burst  of 
rain,  and  the  plunge  of  heavy  seas,  as  the  Crimea 
rounded  into  the  steady  sweep  of  a  gale  outside. 
It  was  not  weather  for  a  landsman  to  be  on  deck, 
and  Colonel  Wolcott  was  just  going  below  "when 
he  was  ware"  of  a  head,  wrapped  in  a  soft  white 
cloud  of  knitted  wool,  rising  unsteadily  above  the 
break  of  the  deck.  A  fair  hand  clasped  the  bra 
zen  stanchion  of  the  stairway,  and  a  figure  rose 
before  him,  blown  by  the  rising  gale,  wet  with 
the  furious  rain,  and  in  peril  every  moment  from 
the  vessel's  motion. 

"  Good  God,  Adela !  "  he  cried.  "  Is  it  possi 
ble  ?  This  is  no  place  for  you  !  " 

"  Where  is  my  place  ?  Is  it  here  ?  Is  it  any 
where  ? "  she  said  vehemently,  pushing  his  arm 
aside  by  a  gesture  rather  than  movement,  as  he 
rushed  to  help  her.  "  You  would  not  have  me 
here,  perhaps.  You  have  no  room  for  me  in  your 
world,  but  I  must  speak.  I  must  litfe,  you  know, 
just  so  long  as  God  may  please.  If  my  death 
could  leave  you  free  I  would  gladly  die,  but  it 
cannot  be  until  God  wills  it  so.  We  must  make 
the  best  of  things.  I  wish  I  could  have  died 
before  I  lost  my  trust  in  you  !  " 

The  wind  made  her  stagger  as  she  spoke. 
The  rain  blew  in  swirls  about  her  face  and  loos 
ened  her  hair.  Her  husband,  disconcerted  by 


AT  LAST.  167 

her -rejection  of  his  aid,  offered  it  no  longer.  She 
could  not  stand,  and  sat  down  on  the  upper  brass- 
bound  step  of  the  six  that  led  to  the  quarter 
deck,  clasping  one  of  the  stanchions. 

"  I  must  see  you,"  she  said,  "  and  I  cannot  in 
the  saloon  or  on  the  guards.  I  must  understand, 
must  speak.  I  cannot  bear  this  suspense.  I  am 
Lancey's  mother.  Tell  me,  who  was  it  stood 
beside  the  man  that  hailed  us  from  the  little 
steamer,  —  the  old  man  with  white  hair  ?  I  could 
not  see  who  it  was,  but  I  guessed  —  I  guessed." 

"  I  knew  the  man  at  once,"  said  Colonel  Wol- 
cott.  "  I  recognized  him  immediately." 

"  Then  it  was  Mr.  Smith,  my  London 
lawyer,  —  Mr.  Smith,  who  travelled  with  us 
to  Liverpool.  He  came  to  bring  me  news  of 
Lance!  I  thought  I  heard  them  shout  my  name 
and  the  name  that  you  go  by  on  this  ship.  What 
right  had  you  to  take  my  telegram  ?  What  has 
happened  to  my  boy  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me,  Adela.  I  had  no  right  to  take 
your  telegram.  I  own  it.  I  have  lost  a  husband's 
rights  in  everything  concerning  you.  It  was 
wrong,  I  acknowledge.  But  the  telegram  was  put 
into  my  hands  and  I  saw  its  contents.  It  said  noth 
ing  about  Lance.  I  feared  that  it  might  make 
you  land  at  Queenstown,  which  would  take  away 
from  me  all  chance  to  plead  my  cause.  I  hoped 
when  we  had  made  this  voyage — but  no  matter. 


1 68  SALVAGE. 


I  see  you  are  as  prejudiced  against  me  as  ever. 
The  telegram  was  not  what  you  suppose.  It  was 
to  put  you  on  your  guard,  —  I  will  send  it  you 
by  Mel,  —  to  warn  you  that  I  was  on  board." 

"  Why  did  you  say  anything  about  it  to  Mrs. 
Tontine  ?" 

"  Mrs.  Tontine  !  Nonsense.  Can't  you  for 
get  that,  Adela  ?  I  had  my  folly  once ;  but 
what  have  I  to  do  now  with  Mrs.  Tontine  ?  " 

"  But  Lance  ? "  she  cried.  "  I  left  him  half  ill, 
excited,  unhappy  !  I  left  him  among  .strangers, 
for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  that  I  might  make 
this  voyage.  I  thought  —  I  hoped  —  never  be 
fore  since  he  was  born  have  I  been  parted  from 
him.  Oh,  give  me  my  boy  back  again  !  Have  you 
stolen  him  ?  Lancelot,  I  will  try  not  to  think  you 
treacherous,  though  it  was  very  cruel.  I  trusted 
you  and  I  betrayed  my  child  ! " 

"  Don't,  Adela,  oh,  don't !  I  cannot  bear  it," 
he  said,  turning  his  head  away  from  her.  "  What 
makes  you  call  me  treacherous  ?  What  do  you 
mean  by  betrayal  ?  I  know  nothing.  I  have 
done  nothing.  Treacherous  !  If  there  be  any 
treachery,  is  it  not  yours  ?  You  have  hidden 
my  boy  from  his  father.  You  have  put  him  out  of 
my  reach.  I  only  know  what  you  have  told  me." 

"  You  took  my  telegram.  I  wanted  it  so 
much  !  If  it  was  not  to  tell  me  that  you  have 
him,  then  Lance  must  be  ill.  Ill,  without  me  ! 


AT  LAST.  169 

111,  and  I  here  !  That  boat  must  have  come  out 
to  take  me  back,  to  tell  me  that  he  is  ill,  and  that 
he  needs  me.  Is  it  so  ?  O  Lancelot,  do  not  keep 
back  the  ill  news  !  I  have  nothing  left  but  Lance ; 
you  have  cast  me  away  !  " 

"  Adela,"  he  reiterated,  "  the  telegram  said 
nothing  of  the  kind.  It  did  not  mention  Lance 
in  any  way.  He  cannot  be  ill.  There  is  no 
earthly  reason  to  suppose  so." 

"How  do  you  know?  I  heard  'Wolcott'  in 
the  hail.  What  makes  you  sure  ?  Do  not  de 
ceive  me !  I  see  you  know  something.  What  was 
in  that  telegram  ?  Why  dp  you  turn  away  ?  " 

"  Be  comforted,  Adela  !  Do  not  sob  so  wildly  ! 
The  telegram  was  not  about  our  boy.  It  was 
simply  that  man's  warning  against  myself.  It 
carme  to  tell  you  — "  he  hesitated. 

"  That  we  are  divorced,  before  I  can  get  home  ?" 
she  cried,  almost  with  a  shriek. 

"  No,  simply  to  inform  you  that  I  am  on  board. 
It  advised  you  to  land,  to  go  to  a  hotel,  to  take 
the  next  steamer.  It  said  Smith  would  come  to 
Queenstown.  It  was  wrong  to  keep  it,  Adela, 
but  I  wanted  my  last  chance  too  much  to  miss 
it  when  it  came  in  my  way.  I  did  not  mean  to 
wrong  you.  I  thought  you  would  know  nothing 
about  it  till  I  told  you  ;  that  no  harm  would  be 
done  if  you  never  got  Smith's  message.  There 
was  no  mention  of  Lance,  I  give  you  my  word. 


I/O  SALVAGE. 

The  lawyer's  only  thought  was  to  get  you  away 
from  me." 

"O  Lancelot,"  she  began  to  plead,  "you  will 
not  take  him  from  me  ?  You  will  not  enforce 
your  claim  ? " 

"  Be  comforted,"  he  cried  eagerly,  "  I  will  not 
take  him.  I  make  that  promise  solemnly,  with 
out  conditions." 

She  started  to  her  feet,  forgetful  of  the  plung 
ing  of  the  vessel. 

As  she  rose,  some  object  slipped  down  the 
saloon-deck  like  a  boy  upon  a  slide.  The  ship 
gave  a  tremendous  plunge  ;  the  moving  object 
struck  Adela,  knocked  her  off  her  feet,  and 
bounded  down  the  break  on  to  the  deck  below 
them.  Her  husband  caught  her  as  she  fell. 

The  missile  was  Harrie  Tontine,  who  had  shot 
down  upon  them  from  the  after  part  of  the 
saloon-deck  on  which  they  were  standing,  having 
lost  her  footing  in  the  sudden  lurch. 

The  next  moment  the  Crimea  shipped  a  heavy 
sea.  Colonel  Wolcott,  with  his  burden,  lost  his 
footing,  and  felt  himself  carried  to  leeward  on  the 
back  of  a  green  swell.  For  a  few  seconds  he  im 
agined  that  he  and  Adela  were  overboard.  Then, 
as  the  ship  rolled  back,  they  were  dashed  against 
some  brass-work,  and  he  recovered  himself  as  the 
water  rushed  down  upon  the  guards  and  plunged 
over  into  the  sea  out  of  the  scuppers. 


AT  LAST.  I/I 

Adela  had  given  one  wild  shriek  as  Harrie, 
followed  by  the  rushing  wave,  bore  down  upon 
her.  She  clung  tight  to  her  husband's  neck  with 
full  consciousness  of  the  situation,  for  a  moment, 
and  then  she  fainted. 

But  Harrie  had  the  elasticity  of  a  cork,  and  was 
quite  uninjured  by  her  slide. 

"  Where  have  you  come  from,  Miss  Harrie  ? " 
cried  the  third  officer,  who  caught  her.  "Did  n't 
I  tell  you  not  to  go  up  on  the  hurricane  deck  in 
this  gale  ?  No  passengers  ever  go  up  there  when 
the  wind  blows." 

"  Yes,  but  they  do  though,"  cried  Harrie.  "  Mr. 
Dobson  and  Mrs.  Wolcott  are  quarrelling  up  there 
now.  I  saw  him  trying  to  put  his  arm  round 
Mrs.  Wolcott's  waist  and  she  would  not  let  him. 
That 's  what  I  went  up  to  look  at.  I  knocked  her 
down,  I  think,  and  then  he  got  hold  of  her.  Look, 
Mr.  Adkins!  There  he  comes  down  now!  He 
is  carrying  her  in  his  arms ! " 

The  officers  hurried  forward,  but  Colonel  Wol 
cott  would  not  give  up  his  burden  to  them. 
He  carried  her,  dripping  and  unconscious,  down 
to  the  ladies'  cabin,  where,  the  door  of  her  state 
room  being  open,  he  entered,  and  laid  her  on 
the  bed,  crying,  "  Where  is  the  doctor  ?  " 

In  a  moment  the  stewardess  and  the  doctor  of 
the  ship  hurried  in,  followed  by  several  ladies. 

"  Come  and  change  your  things,  sir,"  said  Mr. 


1 72  SALVAGE. 


Adkins,  tapping  the  colonel  on  the  shoulder  as 
he  stood  gazing  stupidly  at  his  unconscious  wife. 
"  You  are  making  all  the  cabin  dripping  wet. 
Don't  you  see  ? " 

"  Is  she  hurt,  doctor  ?  Did  she  strike  against 
the  brass? "  he  asked,  paying  no  attention  to  Mr. 
Adkins. 

"  No,  sir,"  said  the  surgeon,  with  some  con 
tempt, —  for  Harrie  was  pouring  out  her  version 
of  the  event  to  a  circle  of  listeners  in  the  ladies' 
cabin,  —  "  nor  do  we  want  you  here.  Mrs.  Wol- 
cott  has  to  be  undressed.  Go  down  and  change 
your  own  clothes.  Steward,"  to  Mel,  "  get  him  a 
stiff  glass  of  hot  brandy  and  water." 

"  You  are  sure  she  is  not  injured  in  any  way  ?  " 

"  Clear  the  state-room,  if  you  please  ! "  was  all 
he  could  get  out  of  the  doctor. 


JEALOUSY.  173 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

JEALOUSY. 

And  through  the  tossings  of  one  turbulent  night 
Let  me  descry  the  harbor  of  my  home. 

H.  TAYLOR,  Edwin  the  Fair. 

"T  ANCELOT!  Lancelot!"  were  the  first 
•*-**  words  that  Adela  uttered  as  she  came 
to  herself. 

"That's  her  little  boy  she's  asking  for;  his 
name  is  Lancelot,"  interpreted  the  stewardess  to 
the  ladies.  "  She  is  thinking  about  him." 

.The  first  words  that  Adela  heard  distinctly 
were  from  the  doctor. 

"  What  do  you  want,  steward  ? " 

"  Please,  sah,  Mas'  Dobson  he  want  to  know 
how 's  Mrs.  Wolcott  —  Miss  Adela  ?  I  was  to 
bring  him  word  soon 's  she  could  speak." 

"  Tell  him  to  mind  his  own  business.  Mrs. 
Wolcott  won't  be  any  the  better  for  anything 
that  he  can  do,"  grumbled  the  doctor. 

Adela  struggled  to  get  up.  Her  impulse  was 
to  be  upon  her  feet,  and  to  go  again  on  deck, 


174  SALVAGE. 

where  she  might  meet  her  husband,  but  she  fell 
back  feebly  upon  her  pillows. 

"  Lie  quiet,  Mrs.  Wolcott,"  said  the  doctor. 
"  Don't  let  her  have  any  excitement,  but  keep 
her  in  bed,"  he  said  to  the  other  ladies.  "  Now 
then,  I  '11  go  and  see  Miss  Harrie,  Mrs.  Tontine." 

"  Here  I  am,  doctor,"  cried  the  irrepressible 
Harrie.  "  I  put  on  dry  clothes,  and  had  a 
glass  of  something  hot  the  steward  brought  me. 
Stewardess,  go  and 'pick  up  my  things!  they  are 
all  in  a  wet  puddle  on  the  floor  of  my  state 
room." 

"  Harrie  had  no  business  to  be  on  deck,  watch 
ing  people,"  said  Mrs.  Tontine  severely.  "  Her 
governess,  Miss  Wylie,  has  been  sick  in  her 
berth,  and  Harrie  takes  advantage.  She  sees 
everything  she  is  n't  meant  to  see." 

"  Doctor,"  said  Mrs.  Hobbes,  "  I  '11  sit  with 
Mrs.  Wolcott.  What  do  you  think  it  is,  —  the 
fall,  or  sea-sickness,  or  some  shock  she  had  from 
somebody  on  deck,  or  grieving  for  her  little  boy  ? " 

"  We  shall  tell  better  to-morrow,"  said  the  doc 
tor.  "  Meantime  keep  her  quiet,  and  don't  let 
her  hold  any  communication  with  any  one  who 
might  renew  the  excitement." 

"  You  mean  not  with  Mr.  Dobson  ?  No,  doc 
tor,  Mrs.  Hobbes  and  I,  and  my  governess,  Miss 
Wylie  (if  she  's  well  enough)  will  see  that  she  is 
not  disturbed,"  said  Mrs.  Tontine. 


JEALOUSY.  175 


For  some  time  after  Adela  recovered  con 
sciousness  she  lay  with  closed  eyes,  unwilling  to 
open  them  upon  the  faces  about  her,  and  recall 
ing  the  late  scenes  upon  the  deck  with  many  an 
inward  shudder. 

After  a  while  she  looked  up  and  found  that  she 
was  alone  with  Mrs.  Hobbes  ;  but  the  din  of  the 
gale  was  deafening,  —  the  creaking  of  the  ship, 
the  swash  of  the  bilge-water,  the  rattle  of  the 
rudder-chains,  and  the  roaring  of  the  wind  as  it 
howled  among  the  rigging. 

Beside  her  in  a  rocking-chair  sat  Mrs.  Hobbes, 
holding  fast  to  one  of  the  posts  of  the  bed  ;  for 
the  "  Bridal  State-room  "  boasted  exemption  from 
the  usual  wooden  coffins  in  which  ordinary  sea 
going  passengers  sleep.  The  poor  lady  was  be 
ginning  to  feel  the  motion  of  the  ship,  though 
thus  far  she  had  borne  up  bravely,  and  would 
have  retired  to  her  berth  had  she  not  felt  under  a 
sort  of  responsibility  to  Mrs.  Tontine,  who  had 
assumed  the  place  of  head-nurse  to  Mrs.  Wolcott, 
and  had  strictly  ordered  her  coadjutrix  not  to 
suffer  any  messages  to  pass  between  Mr.  Dobson 
and  the  patient,  the  doctor  having  expressly  pro 
hibited  them. 

In  vain  Mel  sought  Roxana,  and  endeavored  to 
make  her  a  go-between. 

"  I  won't  have  nothing  to  do  with  things  like 
them,"  she  said.  "  My  ladies  is  respectable.  I 


176  SALVAGE. 


know  that  Mrs.  Wolcott  don't  want  nothing  of 
that  kind,  when  she  gets  well  enough  to  hear 
what  is  being  said  of  him  in  the  cabin.  I  don't 
want  no  foxes  nor  no  'possums  in  sheep's  cloth 
ing,  sneaking  round  my  ladies.  A  young  girl 
and  her  beau,  now,  I  'd  take  a  message  for,  but  not 
this  kind,  Mr.  Mel." 

"  Well,  but  jes'  tell  me  how  she  is,  Miss  Young. 
The  poor  feller  does  so  want  to  know  about  her." 

"  Tell  him  she 's  none  the  better  for  seein'  him, 
an'  that  's  what  the  doctor  said  himself,"  said 
Roxana.  "  I  think  he  's  a  real  impudent  feller,  — 
that  Dobson,  —  no  matter  if  you  was  brought  up 
upon  de  same  plantation.  'Pears  like  it  must 
have  been  some  ornary  one-horse  farm.  'Specs 
he  was  some  low-down  white  trash  ;  he  looks  like 
it,  anyhow." 

"  How  do  you  find  yourself,  my  dear  ? "  said 
Mrs.  Hobbes,  as  Adela,  who  had  heard  a  portion 
of  all  this,  lay  endeavoring  to  devise  some  pretext 
for  calling  Mel  into  her  state-room.  Then,  after 
giving  her  some  spoonfuls  of  beef-tea,  she  re 
sumed,  "  My  dear,  I  am  an  old  woman  and  a 
grandmother.  You  will  not  think  it  rude  if  I  say 
that  in  your  situation  you  must  give  up  a  good 
many  things, —  things  that  of  themselves  may  be 
perfectly  proper  and  reasonable." 

She  paused,  and  Adela  said  sadly,  — 

"I  know  that,  Mrs.  Hobbes.     I  have  always 


JEALOUSY.  177 


tried  to  walk  by  that  rule.  I  know  it  is  the  only 
safe  one  for  a  woman  living  apart  from  her  hus 
band." 

"  Yes,  dear.  This  young  man  Dobson,  now, 
for  instance.  I  dare  say  he  is  not  a  forger  or  a 
Fenian  or  a  defaulter,  as  some  people  say ;  still, 
it  is  not  quite  the  thing  for  you  to  be  seen  with 
him  so  frequently,  or  to  go  with  him  alone  on 
deck  in  such  a  gale,  and  take  him  in  to  prayers, 
you  know." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Hobbes,  so  far  as  taking  any  one 
to  church  goes,  I  don't  know  why  people  should 
comment  on  my  having  done  so.  I  met  him  on 
the  journey  to  Liverpool.  I  can't  explain  the 
case  to  you  or  any  one.  I  supposed  people  knew 
me  and  would 'trust  me.  People  always  have 
been  kind  to  me.  Nothing  disagreeable  ever 
has  been  said  of  me  before." 

"There's  something  in  that,  of  course  there 
is,"  said  Mrs.  Hobbes.  "  But,  you  see,  people 
will  gossip  on  a  sea-voyage.  The  ship  is  like  a 
world,  —  they  must  have  daily  news  to  keep  life 
going  ;  and  you  have  a  friend  on  board  who 
is  not  very  friendly.  Mrs.  Tontine  would  be 
glad  of  anything  that  put  you  in  the  wrong, 
or,  at  least,  so  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Ah !  Mrs.  Tontine,"  said  Adela,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  You  were  rivals,  and  she  would 
be  glad  to  injure  you  and  get  up  stories  to  your 
12 


178  SALVAGE. 

discredit  if  she  could.  You  have  no  idea  how 
such  things  spread.  And  indeed,  my  dear,  every 
one  is  talking  about  this  Mr.  Dobson.  The  tu£ 
came  out  of  Queenstown,  with  an  officer  on  board 
to  take  him  off  the  ship,  they  say.  I  know  that 
you  mean  no  harm  and  do  no  harm,  —  of  course 
I  do  ;  but  you  should  be  careful.  So  many 
people's  eyes  are  fixed  on  him  and  you  since  that 
horrid  little  Harrie  started  all  this  talk." 

Adela  sighed,  and  made  no  reply.  She  lay 
quiet,  and  began  to  pray.  How  good  it  is  that, 
when  perfectly  powerless  to  help  ourselves,  we 
can  call  upon  the  Fatherhood  of  God  and  be  sure 
that  He  hears ! 

Somehow,  since  that  moment  in  her  husband's 
arms  she  felt  a  sanguine  hope  that  she  should 
win  him  yet.  The  blessedness  of  such  success 
seemed  to  rise  upon  her,  like  a  star  of  love 
and  hope  above  a  dark  horizon.  She  would  no 
longer  despair.  The  reproaches  she  had  ad 
dressed  to  him  on  the  deck  now  seemed  unjust 
and  fretful.  She  had  shown  want  of  trust  in 
God  and  faith  in  him.  Was  it  jealousy  that  had 
made  her,  even  for  a  moment,  think  that  the  man 
she  loved  would  be  happier  on  a  lower  level  with 
an  inferior  woman  ?  How  could  she  so  have  dis 
paraged  him,  even  in  thought,  as  to  suppose  that 
he  could  be  content  with  a  Mrs.  Tontine  ? 

Softly  she  repeated  the  Lord's  Prayer  over  to 


JEALOUSY.  1/9 


herself,  as  was  her  custom  when  perplexed  or  be 
set  by  any  trial.  It  was  so  comfortable  to  trust 
God  in  distress,  so  comfortable  to  have  the  right 
to  lean  on  Him  !  Then  she  remembered  Crom 
well's  favorite  psalm,  and  in  its  words  implored 
her  Heavenly  Father  "to  heal  the  breach,  to 
be  the  Restorer  of  paths  safe  to  walk  in." 

There  was  also  satisfaction  as  she  thought  of 
the  fame  her  husband  had  won.  The  man  in 
whose  favor  the  reading  world  had  pronounced 
its  verdict  could  no  longer  be  crushed  by  her  con 
nections  or  by  the  disadvantage  of  her  money. 
He  seemed  to  her  to  have  shaken  himself  free 
from  much  that  in  past  years  had  marred  their 
married  happiness. 

Her  soul  floated  into  a  rainbow-tinted  dream 
of  happy  thoughts,  from  which  she  was  roused 
by  Harrie,  shouting  from  the  doorway  of  the 
state-room,  — 

"  Mrs.  Hobbes,  mamma  sends  word  that  she 
hopes  you  are  not  angry  with  her  for  leaving  you 
so  long  with  Mrs.  Wolcott.  She  will  be  down 
to  take  her  turn  directly.  But  she  is  up  in  the 
saloon,  having  a  good  time  with  the  captain  and 
Sir  George  and  Mr.  Dobson.  She  said  I  was  to 
tell  you.  Mr.  Dobson  is  drinking  tea  at  the  first 
table." 

Adela,  on  hearing  this,  started  up  in  her  bed, 
eager  to  rise,  but  this  Mrs.  Hobbes  prevented. 


180  SALVAGE. 


She  had  not  been  satisfied  with  the  effect  pro 
duced  by  her  hints  about  Mr.  Dobson,  and  this 
message  gave  her  an  opportunity  to  try  advice 
once  more. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  Mr.  Dobson 
seems  very  ready  to  take  up  with  any  lady  who 
gives  him  an  opportunity.  Leave  him  to  Mrs. 
Tontine.  I  saw  her  ogling  him  when  I  was  last 
upstairs." 

"  It  's  mighty  queer  he  should  be  eating  at  the 
captain's  table  anyhow,"  remarked  Roxana,  who 
just  then  came  into  the  state-room.  "I  thought 
Captain  Moore  knew  enough  to  keep  such  folks 
in  their  places.  But  I  don't  believe  it  anyway. 
First  place,  there  is  a  stiff  gale  an'  a  heavy  sea. 
The  captain  does  not  often  quit  the  deck  such 
nights,  an'  he  's  mighty  particular  who  he  lets 
sit  down  at  his  own  table.  He  don't  allow  no 
body  to  do  that  'cept  those  he  likes,  an'  whom 
he  knows  has  everything  to  recommend  them.  I 
don't  think  as  he  does  know  that  gentleman, — • 
or  not  favorably.  Leastways  I  heard  him  say,  no 
longer  ago  than  after  luncheon,  that  he  reckoned 
the  police  was  after  him,  an'  came  out  in  that  tug 
to  get  him  out  of  the  Crimea." 

Adela  heard  this,  and  the  pretty  flowers  of  her 
hope  folded  their  leaves.  If  he  elected  to  be  with 
Mrs.  Tontine  in  her  absence,  it  corroborated  her 
worst  fears. 


JEALOUSY.  l8l 


Presently  a  noise  was  heard  upon  the  brass- 
bound  stairs  of  the  companion,  then  a  noisy 
laugh  and  a  loud  voice,  betokening  that  Mrs. 
Tontine  was  coming  down  from  the  saloon,  sup 
ported  by  gentlemen.  Adela  sat  up  in  bed. 
The  door  of  her  state-room  had  been  left  partly 
open  by  Mrs.  Hobbes,  and  she  saw  Cora  stagger 
into  the  ladies'  cabin,  upheld  by  Captain  Moore 
upon  one  side  and  on  the  other  by  Mr.  Dobson. 

"  You  may  go  now,"  said  the  widow,  relinquish 
ing  the  latter's  arm.  "  You  have  no  business  in 
this  cabin.  It  is  only  free  to  married  gentlemen 
who  have  their  wives  on  board,  you  know." 

"Not  until  I  ask  — "  he  said,  moving  towards 
Adela's  door.  Their  eyes  met,  but  Mrs.  Hobbes, 
by  a  movement  of  her  foot,  promptly  slammed  it 
in  his  face. 

It  was  a  little  comfort  to  Adela  to  remember 
that  movement  as  she  tossed  restlessly  all  night 
upon  her  bed.  Her  husband  returned  to  the 
saloon,  discomfited,  but  somewhat  consoled  by 
the  brief  glance  he  had  obtained  of  her. 

"Well,  Mr.  Dobson,"  said  Sir  George,  "you 
seem  to  have  achieved  a  rapid  conquest  of  the 
widow.  They  say  that  as  black  walls  absorb 
light,  so  widows'  weeds  absorb  the  most  attention." 

"  I  knew  Mrs.  Tontine  before  she  was  a  widow 
—  before  she  was  even  Mrs.  Tontine,"  said  Dob- 
son,  willing  to  give  more  of  his  confidence  to  an 


1 82  SALVAGE. 

utter  stranger  than  he  would  have  done  to  an 
American.  "  I  thought  her  attractive  then,  —  but 
how  changed  she  is.  Is  the  change  only  in  her,  I 
wonder,  or  can  it  be  that  I  have  changed  ? " 

"  It  may  be  that  marriage  altered  her,"  said 
Sir  George,  "  or  perhaps  it  was  a  case,  on  your 
part,  when 

"  '  The  first  experience  of  unripe  years 
Was  nature's  error  on  the  way  to  truth.' 

They  say  that  every  woman  improves  or  deteri 
orates  according  as  she  marries." 

"  What  a  motive  for  the  careless  to  choose 
carefully !  "  said  Lancelot  thoughtfully.  "  But 
she  was  not  noisy  then  —  or  —  or  coarse.  How 
ever,  perhaps  when  I  knew  her  first  I  looked 
at  her  with  the  sun  shining  in  my  eyes !  " 


THE  WRECK.  183 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE    WRECK. 

No  more  let  Life  divide  what  Death  can  join  together. 

SHELLEY,  Adonais. 

HHE  next  day  broke,  thick,  lowering,  and 
-*-  gray,  with  a  short,  heavy  swell.  The  at 
mosphere  seemed  to  press  down  upon  the  ship. 
It  was  not  haze,  it  was  not  fog,  but  a  sort  of  dead 
weight  of  atmospheric  pressure.  A  heavy,  leaden 
sky  loomed  over  a  dull,  gloomy  sea.  The  Crimea 
labored  terribly,  rising  with  apparent  effort  on 
the  back  of  every  swell.  The  passengers  were 
nearly  all  kept  prisoners  in  their  berths,  though 
some  few  were  in  the  saloon,  from  the  windows  of 
which  they  looked  out  on  the  gray-green  heave 
which  it  sickened  them  to  study.  It  was  one  of 
those  uncomfortable  days  on  shipboard  when 
sailors  have  everything  their  own  way,  and 
when  all  a  landsman  can  do  is  to  hold  on, 
physically  and  metaphorically,  till  things  right 
themselves  and  restore  the  passenger  element  to 
supremacy. 


1 84  SALVAGE. 


There  was  not  much  wind  as  yet,  though  it 
was  evident  that  a  gale  was  coming  up  from  the 
Bay  of  Biscay.  Now  and  then,  without  warn 
ing,  all  things  loose  about  the  decks,  animate  or 
inanimate,  were  flung  to  leeward,  and  for  a  mo 
ment  the  ship  floundered  helplessly  till  she  rose 
upon  another  swell. 

A  sleepless  night  had  more  and  more  unsettled 
Colonel  Wolcott's  plans  and  feelings. 

"  Doubts  tossed  him  to  and  fro, 
Love  keeping  Hope,  Hope,  Love  alive." 

At  one  moment  his  courage  sank  as  he  recalled 
the  look  of  wild  reproach  his  wife  had  cast  at 
him ;  at  another,  he  thrilled  with  the  remem 
brance  of  the  instant  during  which  he  had  held 
her  in  his  arms. 

On  his  reappearance  among  the  officers  of  the 
ship  and  his  fellow-passengers,  he  perceived 
afresh  that  he  was  an  object  of  general  avoidance 
and  suspicion.  At  first  it  amused,  then  it  an 
noyed  him.  In  his  present  mood,  isolation  was 
hateful.  He  was  yearning  for  sympathy. 

"  I  have  no  longer  any  reason  to  conceal  my 
self  from  Adela.  The  die  is  cast,  so  far  as  she  is 
concerned,"  he  said.  "And  yet  how  can  I  admit 
the  vulgar  crowd  on  board  into  my  confidence, 
how  suffer  it  to  watch  the  progress  of  a  drama 
which  is  life  and  death  to  me  ?  No  !  So  long 
as  the  voyage  lasts,  I  must  retain  this  name  of 


THE  WRECK.  185 


Dobson.  But  as  for  you,  old  boy,  you  may  recog 
nize  me  now  !  "  he  suddenly  exclaimed,  stooping, 
with  a  new  appreciation  of  sympathy,  to  the  dog, 
who  for  four  days  had  never  ceased,  whenever  his 
master  appeared  on  deck,  to  track  his  steps,  and 
sniff  about  his  feet  with  looks  of  mute  inquiry. 
The  animal  had  been  reasoning  within  himself, 
as  we  all  know  a  good  dog  will,  not  able  to  set 
his  confused  perceptions  right  because  no  caress 
from  the  hand  that  once  fondled  him  had  re 
sponded  to  his  demonstrations  of  delight,  turning 
his  suspicions  into  certainty. 

But  now  Colonel  Wolcott  whistled  as  he  took 
the  dog's  head  in  his  two  hands.  The  creature 
recognized  the  note ;  he  recognized  the  voice  he 
had  been  tutored  to  obey  when,  six  years  before, 
his  master  had  lain  wounded  and  in  hiding  in  a 
cabin  on  his  own  plantation.  With  a  low  whine 
of  yearning  long  suppressed,  and  then  a  sudden, 
quick  bark  of  rapture  and  surprise,  the  creature 
knew  him,  sprang  on  him,  licked  his  face,  fawned 
upon  his  hands  and  breast,  and  nestled  its  head 
into  his  bosom.  The  humble  affection  of  a  dumb 
animal  often  melts  the  brave  man's  heart,  —  per 
haps  because,  like  manly  tenderness  for  little 
children,  it  makes  a  safety-valve  for  strong  emo 
tion.  No  man  is  ashamed  of  being  moved  by  the 
affection  of  a  beast  or  a  child.  Colonel  Wolcott 
fairly  broke  down  before  the  dog's  delight.  His 


1 86  SALVAGE. 

eyes  grew  moist,  his  heart  was  full.  It  was 
Ulysses  at  his  threshold :  —  would  he  win  back 
his  Penelope  ? 

It  was  early  in  the  morning,  and,  as  we  have 
said,  the  swell  was  too  great  to  tempt  passengers 
on  deck  from  safer  parts  of  the  vessel.  He  and 
the  dog  had  the  guards  to  themselves,  and  could 
give  free  vent  to  emotion.  The  man  caressed 
and  fondled  the  dog  ;  the  dog  leaped  round  him. 
It  was  like  one  of  those  moments  of  abandon  into 
which  boys  fling  themselves  with  animals,  in 
which  it  is  hard  to  say  if  the  creature  is  almost 
human  or  the  boy  almost  dog. 

Jeb  was  a  black-and-tan  setter  of  the  Gordon 
breed,  with  eyes  as  tender,  beseeching,  and  wistful 
as  a  woman's ;  and  soft  fringes  on  his  shapely  legs. 

As  Colonel  Wolcott  played  with  this  old  com 
rade  the  flood-gates  of  his  heart  were  opened,  and 
forth  rushed  a  pent-up  tide  of  long-repressed  af 
fection.  To  no  one  on  board,  save  Adela,  could 
he  have  spoken  about  his  hopes,  but  to  Jeb  he 
gave  his  confidence  freely.  "  God  help  me,  Jeb  ! 
God  help  me !  I  will  win  her  back.  I  am  a  lost 
man  if  I  fail ;  and  if  ever  I  have  wife  and  child 
and  house  and  home  and  happiness  again,  I  '11 
have  you  and  Mel  too,  I  promise,  Jeb." 

Later  in  the  day  Mel  put  the  following  note 
into  his  master's  hand  :  — 

"Do  not  think   me  ungrateful  or  ungracious, 


THE  WRECK.  1 87 


though  I  may  not  be  able  to  do  all  that  you  ex 
pect  of  me.  I  appreciate  the  generosity  of  your 
promise,  made  without  conditions.  I  have  seen 
your  feeling  for  our  boy.  The  sight  of  it  and  the 
attraction  that  he  found  in  you  made  me  perceive 
that  a  child  needs  both  his  parents,  that  a  boy 
is  not  like  those  little  animals  who  only  need  a 
mother.  I  send  you  his  address,  that  you  may 
write  to  him  or  see  him.  You  will  not  take  him 
from  me,  nor  will  I  any  longer  hide  him  from  you. 
You  gave  me  to  understand  that  news  of  his 
birth  never  reached  you.  Letters  were  writ 
ten  at  the  time  and  afterwards,  but  I  suppose 
they  did  not  get  through  the  lines.  I  wish  I  un 
derstood  more  fully  what  you  would  have  of  me. 
If  it  be  what  I  fear,  it  is  my  duty  to  oppose  you  ; 
but  not  for  selfish  or  unworthy  ends.  I  respect 
my  marriage  vow,  and  must  act  as  I  think  right 
for  him  and  myself  and  you." 

Colonel  Wolcott  read  this  letter  over  and  over. 
It  was  systematically  cold,  as  if  the  writer  had 
repressed  herself  with  every  word,  but  in  it  there 
\vas  evident  a  wish  to  do  him  justice,  a  sympathy 
for  him  as  the  father  of  Lance,  and  openings 
that  might  lead  to  reconciliation.  He  read  and 
pondered  it  over  and  over.  He  sought  her  on 
the  decks,  which  were  wet  and  lonely;  looked 
into  the  ladies'  cabin,  where  he  had  no  claim  to 
penetrate;  watched  for  her  among  the  groups 


1 88  SALVAGE. 


who,  after  luncheon,  were  endeavoring  to  amuse 
themselves  in  the  saloon  in  spite  of  the  heavings 
and  plungings  of  the  vessel :  but  in  vain  ;  she  'did 
not  appear. 

He  questioned  the  doctor,  who  answered  him 
curtly  that  Mrs.  Wolcott  was  ill  and  unable  to 
leave  her  cabin. 

Pencil  and  paper  was  his  only  resource.  It 
might  be  rash  to  write  to  her,  to  deprive  himself, 
at  the  supreme  moment  of  his  life,  of  the  per 
suasiveness  of  look,  tone,  touch,  —  of  the  per 
sonal  memories  that  evermore,  whatever  may 
chance  in  a  married  woman's  life,  connect  her 
with  her  husband;  but  he  burned  with  impa 
tience  to  "  put  his  fortunes  to  the  touch,"  and 
would  delay  no  longer. 

"  Adela,  my  dearest  wife,"  he  wrote,  "  I  have 
been  blind  and  ignorant.  Give  me  the  opportu 
nity  to  plead  my  cause.  Make  little  Lance  a  link 
between  us.  Precious  as  he  is  to  you,  I  shall  not 
rest  satisfied  until  you  love  his  father  just  a  little 
more.  I  love  you,  Adela,  and  will  do  my  best 
to  make  you  love  me  in  return,  unless  your 
heart  is  wholly  set  against  me.  If  I  may  plead 
with  you,  come  out  and  join  me  in  the  captain's 
cabin,  near  the  round  house.  I  shall  remain 
there  till  I  see  you. 

"  Devotedly,  your  husband, 

"L.  S.  W." 


THE  WRECK.  189 


This  note  he  gave  to  Mel,  and  waited,  with  re 
actionary  misgivings,  for  the  answer. 

The  steward  soon  came  back. 

"  Miss  Adela  in  her  berth,"  he  said. 

"  Did  you  give  it  to  her,  Mel  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Mas'  Lancelot.  That  is,  I  stood  by 
when  de  stewardess,  she  gib  it  her.  Mrs.  Ton 
tine  an'  dat  ar  limb,  Miss  Harrie,  was  in  her 
state-room  ;  an'  Miss  Harrie  ask  Miss  Adela  if  it 
was  a  love-letter,  an'  laugh,  an'  say  she  knew  it 
was  from  you." 

"  Ask  the  stewardess  to  let  you  know  as  soon 
as  sjie  is  getting  up,  Mel." 

"  Thinks  maybe  she 's  too  sick  to  get  up,  Mas' 
Lancelot,  an'  as  for  deck,  why,  deck  ain't  no  fit 
place  jus'  now  for  ladies.  'Specs  it  's  coming  on 
to  blow  great  guns." 

Hour  after  hour  passed.  Colonel  Wolcott  took 
his  place  in  the  saloon  at  dinner.  Few  passen 
gers,  and  those  all  men,  were  present.  The  cap 
tain  was  not  there.  Adela  did  not  appear. 

He  asked  the  captain,  after  dinner,  if  he  had 
heard  from  her,  and  whether,  if  she  came  on 
deck,  he  might  use  the  little  cabin.  He  was 
comforted,  on  the  whole,  when  the  captain  told 
him  that  he  was  very  sure  she  would  not  come 
on  deck  that  day,  as  peremptory  orders  had  been 
sent  down  to  keep  all  the  ladies  under  hatches. 

"  It  is  as  much  as  we  can  do  to  work  the  ship 


SALVAGE. 


without  having  them  to  take  care  of,"  said  the 
captain.  "  Ladies  are  best  out  of  the  way  when 
it  comes  on  to  blow." 

Still  restless,  Colonel  Wolcott,  about  dusk, 
again  went  on  deck.  The  night  was  lowering, 
though  a  small  crescent  moon  at  intervals  broke 
with  a  sort  of  watery  light  through  rifts  in  the 
flying  scud,  and  lighted  up  the  glimmering  spray 
along  the  billow's  edge. 

"A  roughish  night,"  said  one  of  the  officers, 
shaking  the  water  from  his  cap.  They  were 
more  civil  to  Mr.  Dobson  since  it  was  known 
that  the  captain  had  admitted  him  to  his  own 
table. 

The  steamer  was  laboring  in  the  long  swell. 
She  was  freighted  with  railroad  iron,  always  a 
most  unmanageable  cargo.  It  demoralizes  the 
compass  and  is  difficult  to  stow,  —  indeed,  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  load  it  so  as  to  trim  a  ves 
sel  ;  besides  which,  should  it  by  any  accident 
break  loose,  it  soon  bumps  a  hole  in  the  ship's 
bottom.  The  officers  were  all  preparing  for  a 
stormy  night.  Every  nmv  and  then  the  straining 
ship  went  down  into  a  valley  of  black  water,  then 
rose  upon  the  surging  crest  of  the  succeeding 
wave,  the  mighty  mass  washing  her  onward  as 
she  buried  her  bows  in  the  gray  seas  which 
foamed  over  her  forecastle.  Now  forward  and 
now  aft,  she  felt  the  full  force  of  the  sea  and  wind, 


THE  WRECK.  191 


and  quivered  as  she  rose  to  meet  the  blast  from 
the  protecting  hollow  of  some  giant  billow. 

An  officer  or  two  upon  the  hurricane  deck 
clung  to  the  brazen  railing,  which  alone  prevented 
them  from  being  washed,  feet  foremost,  into  the 
boiling  sea. 

"  No  place  this  for  you,"  said  Captain  Moore  to 
his  passenger.  "It  needs  sea  legs  to  keep  the 
deck  to-night.  You  had  better  go  into  the  saloon 
or  find  shelter  just  within  the  doorway  of  the 
companion.  We  cannot  have  you  get  a  ducking 
every  evening." 

As  he  spoke  there  was  a  sudden  crash.  A 
shiver  ran  through  the  whole  framework  of  the 
vessel,  the  groans  of  the  machinery  ceased.  The 
ship  shook  as  though  she  would  jerk  all  her 
masts  out  of  her  ;  the  water  poured  over  her  bul 
warks  and  swashed  down  the  hatchways,  carry 
ing  Colonel  Wolcott  off  his  feet.  He  brought  up 
against  something,  he  could  not  see  what  in  the 
dark,  and  clutched  it,  while  the  great  wave  floated 
away  from  under  him.  As  the  water  poured 
into  the  ship's  waist,  and  ran  off  through  the 
scuppers,  he  recovered  himself,  and  sickened  as 
he  realized  the  escaped  danger. 

No  one  had  noticed  him,  nor  would  have  noticed 
him  had  he  been  washed  away.  All  hands  were 
busy,  and  an  indescribable  confusion  prevailed 
both  above  and  below ;  for  in  a  few  moments  it 


SALVAGE. 


had  become  known  to  all  on  board  that  the  great 
shaft  of  the  engine  had  been  broken,  and  that 
the  Crimea  was  at  that  moment  drifting  help 
lessly,  little  better  than  a  wreck. 

Before  she  could  be  brought  under  control  with 
sails  she  shipped  sea  after  sea.  Two  of  her  masts 
had  been  split  (she  carried  four),  the  jib-boom 
was  blown  away,  the  fore-royal  mast  was  broken 
in  two  pieces,  and  with  its  yards  went  over  the 
side,  where,  till  the  crew  could  cut  it  loose,  it  re 
mained  thumping  against  the  hull  of  the  vessel, 
knocking  in  one  or  two  of  the  dead-lights,  and 
smashing  in  its  fall  the  skylight  of  the  engine- 
room  ;  it  also  crushed  and  ground  two  of  the 
boats,  which  added  greatly  to  the  confusion  and 
the  alarm. 

As  soon  as  Colonel  Wolcott  could  recover 
breath,  he  made  his  way  into  the  ladies'  cabin. 
There  all  was  terror  and  confusion.  Water  was 
washing  down  the  stairs,  in  spite  of  the  efforts  of 
the  head  steward  and  his  assistants.  Ladies  were 
clinging  to  their  husbands  and  fathers,  and  im 
ploring  them  not  to  leave  them.  There  was  no 
raving,  no  running  to  and  fro  ;  but  every  time 
the  vessel  lurched  a  shriek  arose,  "  and  great  fear 
was  upon  all  faces." 

Some  women  knelt  at  prayer  in  their  state 
rooms  with  the  doors  open,  for  an  instinct  to  be 
together  seemed  common  to  all  the  passengers  ; 


THE  WRECK.  193 


but  the  greater  part  were  in  the  open  cabin.  A 
heavy  chandelier  had  swung  crashing  against  a 
mirror,  and  fragments  of  broken  glass  were  scat 
tered  everywhere.  Nearly  all  the  lights  were 
out,  and  the  half  darkness  aided  the  confusion. 
Each  time  the  ship  rose  on  a  wave,  —  rolling  as 
if  she  never  again  could  right  herself,  —  and 
made  a  sharp  downward  plunge  again,  more  wa 
ter  rushed  down  the  hatchways,  swashing  first  to 
one  side,  then  the  other,  invading  the  state-rooms, 
drifting  and  floating  boxes,  books,  tables,  chairs, 
life-preservers,  and  everything  movable  about  the 
cabins.  It  was  no  easy,  rhythmic  swell,  such  as 
all  who  have  ever  been  to  sea  know  and  appre 
ciate  in  a  "  stiff  gale."  She  was  literally  "trying." 
The  steersman  could  not  keep  her  steady  before 
the  wind,  and  the  pitching  was  terrible. 

Through  the  confusion  Colonel  Wolcott  made 
his  way  to  his  wife's  state-room.  Adela,  dressed, 
was  standing  within  its  threshold,  steadying  her 
self  against  the  door-posts  and  the  bulkhead.  She 
turned  and  saw  her  husband.  A  rush  of  recol 
lections  overwhelmed  them  for  a  moment.  Their 
glances  were  more  eloquent  than  spoken  words. 

Bracing  herself  by  back  and  feet  against  the 
doorway,  Adela  half  held  out  her  arms.  Her 
husband  put  his  round  her.  "God  grant  that 
we  are  still  husband  and  wife,  Adela!"  he 
whispered. 

13 


194  SALVAGE. 


"Amen  !  "  she  said.  "  Let  us  die  husband  and 
wife,  —  let  us  die  together ! " 

"  No,  live  together !  We  are  wrecked,  but  not 
yet  lost,"  exclaimed  Lancelot. 

"Amen  !  "  responded  Adela  fervently. 

Through  all  the  horrors  of  their  situation  they 
had  a  momentary  glimpse  of  Eden,  like  a  gleam 
of  peaceful  glory  from  a  Christmas  tree,  flashed 
before  the  eyes  of  some  despairing  outcast  in  the 
street  as  the  curtain  falls  within  before  the  lighted 
window-pane. 

The  curtain  in  this  instance  descended  with  a 
jerk,  for  they  heard  Harrie  Tontine's  disagreeable 
titter.  Just  then  there  was  a  cry  down  the  com 
panion  of  "  Volunteers  wanted  for  the  pumps  ! " 

Lancelot  lifted  Adela,  and  put  her  back  upon 
the  bed  in  her  state-room. 

When  he  struggled  up  on  deck,  the  night 
seemed  gloomier  than  ever.  Water  came  wash 
ing  round  his  knees,  and  the  wind  was  blowing  a 
hurricane.  He  felt  his  way,  steadying  himself 
by  the  ropes,  the  stays,  and  ratlines,  till  he  arrived 
about  midships.  Six  passengers  and  as  many 
sailors  were  at  the  pumps,  presided  over  by  an 
officer,  but  the  work  was  very  laborious  and  ex 
hausting.  The  sea  broke  over  them  so  roughly 
that  sometimes  they  all  stood  in  water  to  their 
waists,  and  in  that  water  floated  objects,  which, 
before  they  were  washed  overboard,  hurtled  against 


THE  WRECK.  195 


everything  they  met,  and  bruised  and  injured 
more  than  one  of  the  working  party.  Several  of 
those  who  labored  at  the  pumps  had  already  re 
ceived  bad  wounds.  When  a  great  sea  was 
shipped,  the  pumps  stopped  perforce  for  a  mo 
ment  ;  then,  as  the  wave  receded,  rose  the  strong 
voice  of  authority,  urging  them  cheerily  on  with 
their  task  again. 

About  half  an  hour  after  this  began,  Mel  made 
his  way  along  the  dangerous  deck,  saying  as  he 
came  on,  "  Whar  Mas'  Lancelot  ?  Whar  my 
young  mas'r  ? " 

In  the  ordinary  intercourse  of  life,  Mel,  emanci 
pated  by  the  fate  of  war,  would  have  scorned  to 
call  any  man  his  master :  now  it  seemed  pleas 
ant  to  revive  every  tie  that  involved  a  sense  of 
relationship  or  protection. 

He  had  brought  a  bottle  of  Cognac  and  a 
gutta-percha  drinking-cup. 

"  Missee  done  sent  them,"  he  said. 

"  Tell  her  God  bless  her,  Mel !"  was  the  answer. 

Unspeakably  welcome  as  the  refreshment  was 
to  all  those  laboring  in  the  water,  the  glow  of  re 
newed  courage  that  went  through  Colonel  Wol- 
cott's  heart  far  exceeded  the  experience  of  the 
others.  He  had  been  cared  for !  There  was 
some  one  to  take  thought  for  him  !  The  wander 
ing  Arab,  who  had  congratulated  himself  not  a 
week  since  on  his  freedom  from  all  ties,  was  now 


196  SALVAGE. 

in  ecstasy  at  the  reception  of  a  mouthful  of  brandy 
from  a  wife's  hand. 

After  another  hour  of  tough  work  he  was 
obliged  to  desist,  from  sheer  exhaustion,  and  made 
his  way  back  into  the  ladies'  cabin.  By  that  time 
the  frightened  passengers  had  grown  more  quiet. 
Many  were  sitting  round  Dr.  Danvers  at  a  table, 
where  he  alternately  read  passages  of  Scripture 
and  uttered  prayers.  A  young  man,  badly  hurt 
on  the  deck,  had  been  brought  down  among  the 
women  and  laid  upon  a  sofa. 

Adela  sat  beside  fanning  him.  She  did  not 
see  her  husband  when  he  first  opened  the  door, 
but  he  was  met  by  a  chorus  of  voices  asking  for 
news,  and  Mrs.  Tontine  seized  upon  him. 

"Colonel,  Colonel,  save  me,  save  me!  Oh,  for 
the  sake  of  old  times,  take  care  of  me  !  " 

She  flung  herself  upon  his  breast,  she  clung 
fast  to  him,  while  he  stood  powerless  to  unclasp 
her  arms  from  his  neck,  yet  fearing  that  Adela 
would  misinterpret  the  situation. 

"  Pray  calm  yourself,  Mrs.  Tontine,"  he  said. 
"  Of  course  I  shall  do  all  I  can  for  you.  We  are 
not  lost  yet.  The  ship  is  put  about,  and  we  are 
heading  back  to  Queenstown." 

"  Yes,  yes !  But  if  the  worst  should  come, 
save  me!  O  Lancelot,  save  me  !  I  am  more  to 
you  than  she  can  be.  Think  how  you  once 
loved  me ! " 


THE  WRECK.  197 


Colonel  Wolcott  was  utterly  shocked.  The 
woman  was  beside  herself  with  abject  terror,  but 
he  could  not  understand  how,  even  at  such  a  mo 
ment,  personal  fear  could  swallow  up  all  womanly 
perception.  He  was  trying  to  disengage  her 
arms  from  his  neck  when  Adela,  steadying  her 
self  by  the  cabin  bulkhead,  came  to  his  rescue. 

"  Mrs.  Tontine,"  she  said,  with  a  quiver  in  her 
voice,  "stay  with  me.  My  husband  will  take 
care  of  you." 

"  He  's  not  your  husband  !  You  have  been 
divorced.  I  had  it  in  a  letter  from  New  York !  " 
screamed  Mrs.  Tontine. 

"  We  think  not,  we  hope  not,"  said  Adela. 
"  But,  O  Mrs.  Tontine,  standing  as  we  all  do  in 
the  presence  of  death,  what  is  that  to  you  ? " 

Mrs.  Tontine  sat  on  the  floor  half  insensible. 
Several  of  those  present  carried  her  into  her  own 
state-room,  and  Adela  closed  the  door. 

"  Poor  woman !  "  she  said,  and  sat  down  by  the 
table,  drawing  her  wet  dress  a  little  aside  that  her 
husband  might,  if  he  would,  sit  down  beside  her. 
It  was  no  time  for  explanation  or  affection,  but 
their  hands  sought  each  other  under  the  table. 

"  Doctor,"  said  Adela,  leaning  forward  to  the 
old  clergyman  (for  in  moments  of  great  danger 
reserved  women  sometimes  prove  themselves 
more  expansive  and  emotional  than  others),  "  this 
is  my  husband,  Colonel  Wolcott.  Give  us  both 
your  blessing." 


198  SALVAGE. 


Lancelot  Wolcott  laid  his  head  upon  the  cabin- 
table,  with  a  sob.  His  wife  bent  hers,  with  a 
calm  smile  of  triumph  and  content,  beside  him. 

The  old  pastor  understood  the  situation. 

"  Children,"  he  said,  laying  his  withered  hands 
on  both  their  heads,  "  I  commend  you  to  Him 
'  whose  hand  can  set  right  that  which  none  other 
can.'  One  of  the  holiest  men  that  ever  lived 
taught  that  prayer  to  those  whose  troubles  came 
from  marriage." 


THE  RESCUE.  199 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE    RESCUE. 

One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 
Two  overshadowing  minds,  —  one  life,  one  death. 

Epipsychidion,  SHELLEY. 

f  INHE  glimmer  of  another  dawn  shone  at  last 
-*-  upon  the  helpless  passengers.  The  women 
on  board,  with  the  men  belonging  to  them, 
were  gathered  in  the  condemned  cell  of  the 
ship  —  the  ladies'  cabin.  They  were  waiting 
for  their  death-warrant.  All  excitement  (and 
fear  is  half  excitement)  seemed  to  have  passed 
away.  It  was  with  them  as  it  is  with  most  of  us 
in  critical  moments,  —  they  were  drifting  insensi 
bly  over  the  bar  that  separates  time  from  eter 
nity,  life  from  death,  the  known  from  that  we 
have  no  power  to  know.  Death  seldom  leaps 
upon  us  like  a  wild  beast  or  a  water-spout.  He 
steals  forward  gently.  The  moments  we  have 
dreaded  glide  in  upon  us.  We  find  ourselves  in 
the  midst  of  what  we  most  feared,  and  are  full  of 
an  astonished  tranquillity.  Before  we  are  con- 


200  SALVAGE. 

scious  that  we  have  embarked  on  the  dark  river, 
its  rapids  are  half-way  past. 

The  sky  of  the  new  day  was  broken  and 
troubled.  The  fury  of  the  gale  seemed  somewhat 
less  than  it  had  been  during  the  night,  but  the 
sea  ran  mountains  high.  The  Crimea  hung 
low  at  her  stern,  and  at  times  rolled  fearfully. 
A  donkey-engine  had  at  last  been  got  to  work, 
'and,  being  connected  with  the  pumps,  had  re 
lieved  the  weary  sailors  and  their  volunteer 
assistants. 

The  ship  had  three  boats  left  upon  her  weather 
side.  The  boats  on  the  starboard  quarter  had 
been  crushed  like  nut-shells  when  the  fore-royal 
mast  went  by  the  board. 

As  the  day  dawned  there  was  a  general  dispo 
sition  among  the  passengers  to  escape  from  their 
place  of  confinement,  and  from  time  to  time 
small  parties  ventured  on  deck,  catching  hold  of 
every  object  that  could  steady  their  steps.  The 
wet  hair  of  the  ladies  blew  about  their  necks  and 
faces,  entangling  itself  sometimes  round  the  brass 
work  or  the  ropes  of  the  rigging,  but  no  one 
seemed  conscious  of  any  disorder  in  dress.  As  a 
general  thing,  they  were  all  quiet.  To  borrow  a 
simile  from  Jean  Paul,  many  were  gazing  through 
glass  doors  into  eternity.  They  were  waiting. 
Waiting  for  what  ?  Each  for  a  personal  summons 
into  the  mysterious  darkness  which  gathers  at 


THE  RESCUE.  2OI 


either  end  of  life,  —  a  gloom  no  human  eye,  save 
that  of  One,  has  ever  pierced ;  through  which  no 
forerunner,  save  One,  has  ventured  back  ;  a  path 
less  waste,  which  believer  or  philosopher  must 
tread  one  day  for  himself,  the  one  alone  in  all  the 
horror  of  great  darkness,  the  other  holding  by 
his  Saviour's  hand. 

In  the  cabin,  Dr.  Danvers,  with  many  gath 
ered  round  him,  was  still  praying  and  exhorting. 
Colonel  Wolcott  and  his  wife  had  left  their 
places,  and  together  went  up  the  companion 
way.  The  spectacle  of  the  gloomy,  troubled  sky 
first  broke  on  them  as  they  came  up,  and  then 
such  a  sea ! 

Before  the  ship,  opened  green  hollows  topped 
by  tossing  surges  edged  with  sparkling  foam  ; 
behind,  a  raging  waste  of  waters  mountain  high 
pursued,  and  dashed  over  stern  and  quarter, 
flinging  to  the  sky  showers  of  salt  foam.  One 
close-reefed  sail  only  was  to  be  seen  on  the 
ship,  —  Adela  was  too  ignorant  of  seamanship  to 
know  what  sailors  called  it;  it  was  the  main 
topsail,  —  but  though  it  presented  very  little  sur 
face  to  the  gale,  each  blast  that  struck  the  ship 
seemed  to  seize  it  and  the  bent  mast  that  sup 
ported  it  in  its  teeth  and  shake  them  furiously. 

A  dim  and  sulky  sun  was  visible  above  the 
misty,  shifting  line  of  the  horizon.  The  squall 
swept  after  them.  The  ship,  flying  before  both 


202  SALVAGE. 


wind  and  sea,  seemed  less  driven  than  pursued, — 
one  moment  in  the  trough,  the  next,  rising  on  the 
crest  of  an  immense,  green,  crinkled  wave,  which, 
as  the  wreck  ascended  it,  seemed  mysteriously  to 
slip  away  from  under  her,  while  she  rushed  down 
the  slope,  trembling  and  quivering  like  a  hunted 
thing,  and  dashing  before  her  tons  of  glittering 
spray. 

As  Adela  and  her  husband  reached  the  deck, 
there  was  a  sudden  cry,  and  a  rush  to  the  bul 
wark  on  the  lee  quarter.  A  frightful  sea,  com 
bined  with  a  roll  more  tremendous  than  usual, 
had  swept  four  sailors  from  the  bowsprit,  as  the 
ship  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  ninth  swell  and 
plunged  down  again,  with  one  side  half  buried  in 
the  seething  water.  The  lost  men  tried  in  vain 
to  clutch  at  floating  spars,  ropes,  chains,  —  they 
were  washed  off  into  the  devouring  waters.  No 
man  could  save  them.  For  a  moment  they  were 
seen  struggling  in  the  waves,  were  heard  shriek 
ing  for  succor ;  but  it  was  vain,  their  comrades 
were  forced  to  leave  them  to  contend  alone  with 
death.  No  boat  could  be  lowered  in  such  a  sea. 
The  great  billows  swept  them  after  the  ship,  and 
must  have  borne  them  on  and  on  till  their  powers 
of  endurance  were  exhausted. 

Adela  gave  a  cry,  and  hid  her  face,  clinging 
fast  to  her  husband. 

Half  an  hour  after,  as  the  ship  was  uplifted  on 


TEE  RESCUE.  203 


another  mighty  wave,  there  was  a  piercing  shout 
of  "  Ship  ahoy  !  " 

"  Where  away  ?  " 

"  On  the  port  bow  !  " 

Signals  of  distress  were  made,  and  the  order 
was  passed  to  get  ready  the  boats.  Several  of 
the  passengers  hurried  below  to  spread  the  good 
news,  unconscious  of  the  serious  difficulties  re 
maining  ;  for,  as  we  have  said,  the  starboard  boats 
were  gone,  and  to  round-to  while  running  before 
a  gale  with  a  disabled  ship,  so  as  to  make  it  possi 
ble  to  lower  those  on  the  weather  side  of  the 
ship,  without  their  being  sucked  under  her  rud 
der  or  her  stern,  seemed  impossible. 

The  ship  was  on  their  weather  bow, —  a  ship 
full-rigged,  —  standing  across  their  course,  which 
Captain  Moore  dared  not  materially  alter.  At 
first,  to  the  f  naked  eye,  nothing  of  her  but  her 
masts,  like  three  needles  on  the  edge  of  the  hori 
zon,  was  visible  ;  then  rose  the  glistening  glim 
mer  of  a  wet  sail  over  the  swell ;  and,  lastly,  as 
she  neared  them  the  black  line  of  her  hull. 

Those  on  the  wreck  watched  her  with  an 
anxiety  known  only  to  men  in  whom  the  love  of 
life  has  been  reanimated  by  a  hope  of  rescue. 
Friends  clung  to  each  other  weeping.  Some 
broke  into  an  incessant  and  unnatural  stream  of 
talk ;  others  thanked  God  for  deliverance,  vow 
ing  to  serve  Him  thenceforward ;  some,  with 


204  SALVAGE. 


renewed  earnestness,  resumed  their  prayers  for 
succor. 

Adela  stood  upon  a  coil  of  rope  under  the  lee 
of  the  great  mainmast,  which  sheltered  her  from 
the  spray.  She  stood  a  little  higher,  by  reason 
of  her  pedestal,  than  her  husband,  who,  with  arms 
uplifted,  held  her  by  the  waist. 

"  Succor  is  coming,  Adela,"  he  said.  "  Thanks 
to  your  prayers,  I  think,  my  dearest !  This  ship  is 
eastward  bound.  We  shall  get  back  to  Lance  in 
a  few  days,  and  live  happy  ever  after  this  experi 
ence,  like  people  in  a  fairy  tale.  How  sweet  it 
is  to  love  you  !  How  empty  my  heart  has  felt  all 
these  long  years  !  " 

As  he  said  this,  Mrs.  Tontine,  who  had  not  ap 
peared  on  deck  before  that  morning,  rushed  up 
the  companion,  with  a  wild,  white  face  and  un 
bound  hair.  She  glanced  about  her,  awe-struck, 
for  a  moment.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  Colonel 
Wolcott  standing  by  Adela,  and,  falling  at  his 
knees,  she  clasped  them,  crying,  — 

"  Lancelot,  Lancelot,  save  me,  save  me  !  " 

"  We  shall  all  be  saved,  I  trust,"  he  said.  "  Mrs. 
Tontine,  stand  up,  I  beg  of  you,"  trying  to  make 
her  rise. 

"  No,  not  until  you  promise.  Promise,  prom 
ise  me  to  save  me  !  " 

"  I  promise  that  I  '11  do  my  best.  Of  course 
I  '11  do  my  best  for  you  or  any  lady." 


THE  RESCUE.  205 


"  Ma  always  thinks  that  she  's  of  more  account 
than  anybody  else,"  said  Harrie,  who  had  been 
on  deck  some  time,  and  now  made  her  way  up  to 
them.  "Ma,  you  are  looking  like  a  perfect  fright. 
You  have  not  got  half  your  hair  on,"  added  the 
enfant  terrible. 

"  Hush,  Harrie,  hush,"  said  Adela,  who  had 
stepped  down  from  her  coil  of  rope  upon  the 
deck,  and  stood  clinging  to  her  husband.  "  Your 
poor  mamma  is  frightened  ;  we  are  all  frightened. 
See,  that  ship  is  coming  to  bring  us  help.  Be 
quiet,  Harrie,  and  thank  God  for  sending  her 
to  save  our  lives." 

The  ship  was  now  near  enough  to  signal  them. 
The  captain  made  out  her  name  with  his  glass. 
She  was  the  Robert  E.  Lee  of  New  York,  home 
ward  bound  from  Londonderry. 

The  gale  was  from  the  southwest.  Ever  since 
the  Crimea  had  been  put  about  she  had  been 
blown  northeast  of  her  true  course  to  Queens- 
town.  4 

Meantime  Colonel  Wolcott  had  succeeded  in 
raising  Mrs.  Tontine  to  her  feet.  She  stood 
clinging  to  his  arm  with  her  whole  weight.  His 
wife  was  on  the  other  side  of  him.  Fear  and 
excitement  made  Mrs.  Tontine  voluble.  The 
disgust  he  felt  for  her  increased  his  pity  and 
made  it  impossible  rudely  to  shake  her  from  him. 

"  O  Lancelot  Wolcott,"  she  cried,  "  I  did  love 


206  SALVAGE. 

you !  I  never  have  loved  any  one  but  you  !  I 
ought  not  to  have  given  you  up  for  poor  Ton 
tine.  Can  you  pardon  a  most  unhappy  girl, 
dazzled  by  false  views  of  love  and  marriage  ? 
Can  you  forgive  me  the  sacrifice  I  made  of  your 
whole  life  when  I  proved  false  to  you  ? " 

"  Most  heartily,  Mrs.  Tontine.  I  may  even  say 
I  bless  you.  A  week  ago,  perhaps,  I  might  not 
have  been  so  well  able  to  feel  the  obligation,"  — 
and  his  left  arm  pressed  Adela  closer  to  his 
side,  —  "I  am  too  happy  now  to  bear  a  grudge 
against  any  one." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  Why  are  you 
happy  ? "  cried  Cora,  looking  up  into  his  eyes. 
"Are  you  sure  that  you  forgive  me  with  all  your 
heart  ? " 

"  Perfectly  sure,  Mrs.  Tontine." 

"Ah!  Lancelot,  if  it  is  really  so,  let  me  be 
saved  by  you,  or  let  us  die  together  !  " 

"We  are  not  going  to  die,  I  hope,  Mrs.  Ton 
tine.  We  are  going  on  board  the  Robert  E.  Lee. 
You  are  getting  very  wet,  and  have  no  wrap 
pings.  Let  Sir  George  Beevor  take  you  below. 
Believe  me,  I  will  come  and  l4ok  for  you  when  it 
is  time  for  the  boats,"  he  said  earnestly,  anxious 
to  get  rid  of  her. 

"  Will  you  really  come  for  me  ?  Will  you  give 
me  the  first  chance  ?  Do  you  promise  ? " 

"  He  '11  save  his  wife  first,  you  may  depend  on 


THE  RESCUE.  2O/ 


that"  said  the  captain,  who,  with  Sir  George  and 
several  others,  had  been  attracted  by  so  strange  a 
scene  at  such  a  moment. 

"  She  is  n't  his  wife  any  more  than  I  am,  and 
she  knows  it !  "  cried  Mrs.  Tontine  furiously. 

Colonel  Wolcott  drew  his  right  arm  from  her 
grasp,  and  with  an  angry  word  turned  to  Captain 
Moore,  imploring  him  to  remove  her. 

Before  this  could  be  effected  Adela  had  dis 
tinctly  said,  "  We  think  you  are  mistaken.  We 
have  learned  nothing  which  leads  us  to  suppose 
that  our  marriage  has  been  dissolved.  But  if  we 
are  divorced,  we  shall  be  married  over  again  as 
soon  as  we  get  ashore,  Mrs.  Tontine." 

No  sooner  had  Captain  Moore  managed  to  get 
the  now  hysterical  lady  below  and  to  come  back 
on  deck,  than  the  Robert  E.  Lee  hove  to,  and 
made  signals  to  have  the  Crimea's  boats  lowered. 
She  signalled  back  that  all  the  boats  on  her  lee 
side  were  stove  in.  The  Robert  E.  Lee  then 
signified  that  she  would  send  her  own  boats,  and 
to  "  make  ready  to  transfer  the  ladies." 

By  this  time  all  the  passengers  on  the  Crimea 
were  in  the  ship's  waist,  watching  every  move 
ment  of  those  who  were  bringing  them  succor. 
As  the  Robert  E.  Lee  pitched,  tossing  her  bows 
and  martingale  like  an  uneasy  horse,  and  lifting 
and  falling  with  each  long  heave  of  the  surge,  it 
seemed  impossible  that  any  boat  could  live,  if 


208  SALVAGE. 


launched,  in  such  a  sea.  One  moment  her  bows 
would  be  completely  out  of  water,  showing  the 
copper  on  her  keel,  and  theft  the  stern  would  be 
up,  and  the  bows  completely  buried  in  a  cloud  of 
spray  and  foam. 

The  passengers  on  the  Crimea  did  not  see  the 
actual  lowering  of  the  boats,  as  that  took  place 
on  the  lee  side  of  the  American  vessel,  but  pres 
ently  they  came  into  view  from  round  her  bows, 
and  a  wild  cheer  rose  up  from  two  hundred  voices 
on  the  wreck,  and  was  answered  by  the  boats' 
crews.  There  were  two  boats,  —  one  of  them  a 
life-boat,  capable  of  seating  about  thirty  persons, 
the  other  a  fine  wooden  boat  with  a  square  stern, 
carrying  about  twenty. 

Laying  to  in  such  a  gale  increased  the  roll  and 
pitch  of  the  luckless  Crimea.  Several  times  the 
surge  broke  fairly  over  her  starboard  bulwark,  as 
she  heeled  over  to  leeward,  and  more  than  one 
man  was  washed  off  overboard. 

After  the  cheer,  an  almost  unbroken  silence 
prevailed  among  the  passengers.  It  was  no  time 
for  talk,  indeed,  for  the  noises  of  the  tempest,  and 
the  groanings  and  creakings  of  the  ship's  timbers, 
made  any  voice  pitched  lower  than  a  hail  un- 
distinguishable.  Colonel  Wolcott  and  his  wife 
clung  close  together,  and  from  time  to  time  their 
eyes  met  in  a  long  look. 

On  came  the  boats,  rising  like  corks  upon  the 


THE  RESCUE.  209 


crest  of  the  rollers,  while  the  foam  of  their  two 
white  wakes  opened  out  behind  them  like  a  quiv 
ering  fan.  The  life-boat  was  repeatedly  deluged 
with  water,  but  her  self-righting  power,  and  the 
valves  in  her  which  let  the  water  out,  enabled 
her  to  free  herself.  The  men  who  manned  their 
boat  knew  her  well  and  trusted  her  thoroughly. 

The  wooden  boat  was  harder  to  manage,  and 
made  less  rapid  progress,  being  obliged  to  ac 
commodate  her  course  to  the  force  of  the  wind, 
not  daring  to  row  in  its  teeth,  and  obliged  from 
time  to  time  to  back  water  so  as  to  let  the  heav 
ier  seas  break  in  front  of  her  rather  than  astern. 

At  length  the  life-boat  came  near  enough  to 
make  in  for  the  wreck.  The  sailors  on  board  the 
Crimea  made  ready  to  pass  her  two  hawsers, 
which  would  attach  her  to  the  lee  side  of  the 
ship  by  her  bows  and  stern.  Still  there  was 
terrible  danger  of  her  being  sucked  under  with 
the  roll  of  the  wrecked  ship,  or  ground  to  pieces 
against  her  rudder. 

As  the  passengers  gazed  down  on  the  little 
craft,  half  hidden  in  spray  and  foam,  their  fears 
appeared  to  swallow  up  their  new-formed  cer 
tainty  of  safety.  There  was  more  actual  terror 
exhibited  now  than  had  been  shown  before. 
Some  of  the  women  fainted,  others  went  into 
hysterics.  Many  who  had  borne  themselves 
with  calmness  and  dignity  through  the  long 
14 


210  SALVAGE. 

hours  of  suspense,  broke  down  as  they  realized 
the  dangers  that  yet  lay  between  themselves 
and  safety. 

"  How  many  can  you  take  ? '.'  hailed  Captain 
Moore. 

"Thirty;  women  and  children  only.  If  too 
crowded,  we  may  get  some  of  them  washed  out 
of  her." 

Orders  were  given  to  pass  forward  the  women 
and  children,  —  mothers  first.  It  was  too  awful. 
The  boat  one  moment  would  be  lifted  on  a  sea 
nearly  up  to  the  ship's  bulwark,  the  next  she 
would  be  at  the  bottom  of  a  glistening  gulf 
twenty  feet  below,  hidden  by  the  overlapping 
waves  and, the  clouds  of  spray. 

"  I  dare  not !  oh,  I  dare  not ! "  cried  the  first 
poor  woman  led  to  the  gangway,  as  she  looked 
into  the  abyss  where  lay  the  tossing  boat,  and 
saw  sailors  standing  up  upon  its  thwarts,  holding 
out  their  arms  to  catch  her  if  she  fell. 

"  I  dare  not !  I  dare  not ! "  she  shrieked. 
But  two  men,  suspended  over  the  great  ship's 
side,  slung  by  bow-lines,  to  assist  in  passing  the 
women  into  the  boat,  seized  her  by  the  arms. 
The  boat  rose  on  the  crest  of  a  wave  nearly  to  a 
level  with  the  ship's  deck,  then  she  dropped  into 
a  trough, —  a  furrow  between  two  waves, — sheer 
ing  away  from  the  ship  till  a  great  yawning  gap 
was  left  between  her  and  the  hull  of  the  Crimea, 


THE  RESCUE.  2 1 1 


over  which  the  frightened  woman  hung  suspended 
in  mid-air,  clinging  to  the  men  who  held  her 
up,  and  praying  them  to  put  her  back  upon  the 
deck  of  the  steamer. 

Then,  as  the  boat  once  more  lifted,  the  men  in 
her  cried  "  Let  go  !  "  One  sprang  and  caught  the 
woman  by  the  feet.  She  was  pulled  in,  and  fell, 
rolling  down  into  the  bottom  with  her  preserver. 

Another  and  another  woman  was  passed  in 
with  varying  success,  some  stretching  out  their 
arms  to  the  ship,  and  calling  on  their  husbands 
and  their  children  to  come  too.  There  was  no 
time  for  selection. 

"  Now,  Mrs.  Wolcott,  now  's  your  chance  ! " 
cried  Captain  Moore,  who  was  standing  at  the 
gangway. 

Something  in  her  face  as  she  clung  to  her  hus 
band  led  him  to  say, — 

"  You  next,  ma'am,"  to  a  woman  behind  her, 
while  he  whispered  to  the  colonel, — 

V  If  you  wait  for  the  next  boat,  perhaps  you  can 
go  together." 

In  spite  of  the  many  and  great  dangers  of 
transferring  such  helpless  passengers,  about 
thirty  women  and  children  were  taken  on  board 
the  life-boat. 

Some  touching  incidents  occurred  in  the  con 
fusion.  Emma  Wylie,  Mrs.  Tontine's  English 
governess,  drew  back  when  her  turn  (which  was 


212  SALVAGE. 

• 
the  last)  came,  in  order  that  the  daughter  of  a 

woman  already  in  the  boat  could  go  with  her 
mother,  saying  simply,  — 

"I  have  no  one  to  care  for  me.  Let  her  go 
first." 

Ten  women  still  remained  on  board  when  the 
life-boat  was  cast  off  from  the  Crimea.  She  shot 
clear  in  a  moment.  Those  left  behind  stood 
watching  her  as  she  labored  on  her  way  back  to 
her  own  vessel,  climbing  crest  after  crest  of  the 
big  waves,  like  a  fly,  then  plunging  into  those 
awful,  beautiful  hollows  of  green  water  and  bright 
foam. 

"  They  mount  up  to  heaven,  they  go  down 
again  to  the  depths,"  says  the  Psalmist.  Has 
any  description  since  been  more  perfect  and 
concise  and  comprehensive?  The  multitude  of 
words  is  weak  to  paint  what  the  poet  of  nature's 
God  has  given  us  in  two  touches. 

Meantime,  as  those  on  the  Crimea  watched 
the  course  of  their  late  companions,  the  wooden 
boat,  which  had  been  blown  far  out  of  its  direct 
course,  had  gradually  sheered  in,  and  was  now 
under  her  quarter. 

It  was  understood  that  this  boat  might  hold 
both  men  and  women  passengers,  and  not  a  few 
of  the  former  jumped  into  the  sea  with  the  wild 
intention  of  securing  a  place  on  board  of  her. 
Captain  Moore  had  already  given  permission  to 


THE  RESCUE.  213 


his  engineers  and  crew  to  save  themselves  in  the 
Crimea's  boats  if  they  could  get  them  into  the 
water. 

The  scene  of  confusion  became  great  and  heart 
rending.  Some  of  those  who  jumped  were  sucked 
under  the  Crimea's  keel,  or  were  dashed  to  pieces 
against  her  quarter. 

"  Make  haste,  Mr.  Dobson,"  cried  the  captain. 
"  She  '11  be  full,  if  you  don't  look  sharp,  before 
you  get  your  places  in  her." 

He  was  on  the  point  of  passing  Adela  to  the 
men  who  were  loading  the  boat,  intending  to  fol 
low,  when  he  felt  himself  close  clasped  around 
his  neck  by  a  frantic  woman,  who  cried,  — 

"Save  me,  Lancelot!  You  promised  to  save 
me!" 

In  vain  he  tried  to  disengage  himself.  In  vain 
he  felt  that  Adela,  by  this  movement,  had  been 
pushed  aside. 

"  Mrs.  Tontine,  I  will  not !  Let  me  go !  Let 
me  go,  I  say  !  These  men  will  —  " 

He  did  not  finish  his  sentence.  A  dreadful 
wave  made  a  clean  sweep  over  the  boat,  and 
swelled  over  the  bulwarks  of  the  fast-filling  Cri 
mea,  carrying  overboard  many  of  those  nearest 
the  gangway,  including  Captain  Moore  and  Sir 
George  Beevor.  Colonel  Wolcott,  with  Mrs. 
Tontine  still  clinging  to  his  neck,  half  fell,  half 
slipped  over  the  vessel's  side,  and  found  himself, 


214  SALVAGE. 


half  strangled,  in  the  sea  under  the  ship's  quarter, 
with  Mrs.  Tontine  clinging  to  his  neck,  and  Jeb 
tugging  at  his  beard  and  hair.  They  were  thirty 
feet,  it  seemed  to  him,  below  the  keel  of  the  Cri 
mea,  and  then  in  another  moment  were  almost 
on  a  level  with  her  gangway. 

The  men  in  the  boat  were  bailing  her  with  all 
their  might.  She  had  lost  many  of  those  who 
had  secured  places  in  her,  but  had  righted,  and 
was  now  tossing  on  the  crest  of  a  wave.  Arms 
were  stretched  to  pull  him  in  with  his  burden, 
and  at  the  same  moment  Sir  George  Beevor  was 
dragged  in  on  the  other  side. 

Consigning  Mrs.  Tontine  (whose  frantic  grasp 
was  loosened  only  by  the  friendly  violence  of  the 
sailors)  to  two  of  the  boatmen,  he  refused  the 
arms  held  out  to  him,  and  as  the  next  wave  lifted 
him  within  reach  of  the  main  chains,  clung  to 
them,  and  began  to  swing  himself  up  on  to  the 
deck  of  the  Crimea.  To  his  surprise,  his  four- 
footed  companion  followed  him,  securing  foothold 
after  foothold,  holding  by  his  jaws  to  chains  or 
ropes,  and  giving  an  occasional  low  whine  as  his 
master  lent  a  hand  to  him. 

Few  people  were  to  be  seen  on  board  when  they 
regained  the  deck.  The  Robert  E.  Lee's  boat 
was  already  swept  far  away.  Round  the  Crimea 
floated  spars,  planks,  fragments  of  wreck,  and  the 
bodies  of  the  drowned.  Colonel  Wolcott  recog- 


THE  RESCUE.  215 


nized  poor  Captain  Moore,  far  off  on  the  crest  of 
a  big  wave.  He  had  probably  been  injured  in 
going  overboard,  for  he  made  no  effort  for  self- 
preservation. 

He  cast  his  eyes  along  the  deck.  A  drowned 
woman,  holding  a  dead  child,  was  washed  against 
him.  The  few  living  passengers  who  remained 
clung  together  by  the  lee  bulwark  under  the 
break  of  the  poop  ;  some  feebly  waved  to  those 
on  board  the  distant  boat,  but  there  was  no  re 
sponse,  "  nor  any  that  answered  them "  ;  some 
kept  their  straining  eyes  fixed  on  the  life-boat, 
just  then  transferring  its  passengers  to  the  friendly 
vessel.  It  would  come  back  again,  they  hoped, 
to  take  off  those  who  remained  ;  but  the  sky  was 
growing  darker  every  minute.  Another  gust 
was  evidently  gathering.  All  at  once  a  blue  flash 
of  lightning  shot  zigzag  into  the  sea;  then  came 
a  thunder-crash,  a  sudden  lull.  The  storm  was 
gathering  breath  for  a  fresh  blast.  In  a  minute 
came  a  second  flash,  whose  blaze  lit  the  black 
abyss  with  a  dreadful  glow ;  and  following  this 
a  furious  down-pour  of  rain,  which  hid  every 
thing  from  sight.  When  the  rain  ceased,  the 
mist  rolled  up  rapidly  and  closed  them  in.  The 
Crimea  leaned  over  to  leeward  until  the  sea 
seemed  on  the  same  line  as  her  bulwarks,  pressed 
down  by  the  great  force  of  the  storm,  liable  to 
broach  to  at  any  moment,  and  only  saved,  with  a 


2l6  SALVAGE. 

tremendous  lurch  and  crash,  by  some  stroke  of 
seamanship  on  the  part  of  the  one  officer  and  the 
few  seamen  who  still  remained  at  their  posts. 

They  put  her  before  the  gale  and  let  her  drive  ; 
but  she  was  separated  forever  from  the  Robert 
E.  Lee. 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  2 1/ 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

TILL    DEATH    DO    PART. 

And  fear'st  thou  and  fear'st  thou  ? 
And  see'st  thou  and  hear'st  thou  ? 
And  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 

I  and  thou  ? 

One  boat-cloak  doth  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover, 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure, 

Soft  and  low. 

While  around  —  the  lashed  ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion, 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted, 
Sunk,  shattered,  and  shifted 

To  and  fro. 

SHELLEY,  The  Fugitives. 

a  few  moments  after  Colonel  Wolcott  re- 
gained  the  deck  he  suffered  an  agony  of 
apprehension.  He  could  see  nothing  of  Adela. 
The  dog's  instinct  was  more  keen  than  his  own. 
Jeb  recognized  Mel  crouching  under  the  lee 
bulwark  near  the  poop,  and  with  a  low  whine 
attempted  to  struggle  down  the  deck,  now 
sloping  at  a  sharp  angle  from  bows  to  stern. 
Near  the  steward,  rigid  in  her  grief,  sat  Adela, 
with  her  head  upon  her  knees.  Emma  Wylie 


218    -  SALVAGE. 


lay  half-crouching  at  her  feet,  and  Adela  had 
thrown  an  arm  around  her.  Harrie  Tontine 
stood  near  the  group,  with  a  scared  face,  and 
holding  on  by  a  stanchion, —  her  little  heart 
bursting  with  indignation  against  the  mother 
who  had  saved  herself  and  left  her  to  destruction. 
Some  instinct  recognizing  the  eternal  laws  of 
motherhood  was  strong  upon  her.  A  terror  of 
forsakenness  oppressed  her,  and  she  gazed  with 
an  expression  of  intense  bitterness  into  the  boil 
ing  sea.  It  seemed  so  cruel  in  her  mother  to  have 
saved  herself  and  left  her  child  to  perish.  Her 
fears  were  swallowed  up  in  a  great  sense  of  wrong. 

"  Mamma  !  mamma  !  mamma  !  "  she  shrieked. 
"  Mr.  Dobson,  oh  !  what  made  you  save  mamma 
and  let  her  leave  me?  She  has  gone  away,  and 
left  me  to  be  drowned !  Mamma,  mamma,  come 
back  !  You  shall  come  back  !  Don't  leave  me  ! 
I  won't  be  drowned  alone  !  " 

Colonel  Wolcott  put  his  arm  round  the  frantic 
child  and  tried  to  soothe  her. 

In  the  noise  of  the  storm  his  steps  and  the 
child's  cries  were  both  unheard  by  Adela  and 
Emma  Wylie.  Their  attitude  expressed  despond 
ent  resignation.  Both  were  waiting  for  death 
without  a  murmur  or  a  cry. 

Adela  sat,  as  we  have  said,  on  the  deck,  with 
her  face  bowed  on  her  knees.  Her  husband 
knew  that  she  was  praying.  If  he  had  ever  read 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  2 19 

Southey's  Doctor  —  which  he  had  not — or  could 
have  thought  of  a  quotation  in  a  moment  so 
supreme,  he  might  have  remembered  Dr.  Dove's 
exclamation,  when  recalling  his  brief  love-dream 
for  the  burgomaster's  daughter  at  Leyden,  "  God 
forgive  me  !  For  while  she  was  worshipping  the 
Almighty,  I  was  worshipping  her  !  "  Wending 
his  way  to  where  she  sat,  he  stood  some  moments 
in  silence,  his  heart  uttering  an  amen  to  her  un 
known  petition.  At  last  she  looked  up,  with  a 
wan,  white  face,  and  beheld  him  bending  over 
her.  Her  flush  was  like  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
breaking  through  the  clouds  of  a  retreating 
storm. 

Pointing  in  the  direction  where  the  Robert  E. 
Lee  had  vanished,  she  said  reproachfully,  — 

"  Are  you  here,  Lancelot  ?  I  was  thanking 
God  that  you  were  safe.  I  thought,  I  hoped 
that  by  this  time  you  were  on  board  the  other 
ship." 

"  Did  you  think  I  would  let  myself  be  saved 
without  my  wife  ? " 

Then,  in  low  tones,  he  whispered  tender  words ; 
he  called  her  wife  and  love, —  his  "dear,  dear 
Adela."  She  raised  her  eyes  and  fastened  them 
on  his  with  one  of  those  intense  looks  by  which 
one  soul  sends  a  message  into  another  soul.  He 
took  her  in  his  arms,  for  she  had  risen ;  he  kissed 
her ;  he  murmured  low,  fond  words  in  her  ear, 


220  SALVAGE. 

while  she  clung  closely  to  his  breast,  sobbing 
with  strong  emotion. 

"  It  was  so  wrong  of  you  to  come  back  !  You 
should  have  left  me  ! " 

He  answered  her  with  kisses. 

"  Nothing  can  part  us  now,  Lancelot  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  my  wife,  —  forever  and  forever  and 
forever ! " 

Fresh  kisses. 

"  Love's  language  always  is  forever"  says  a 
Frenchman,  writing  on  divorce.  "  Adam  said  it 
with  manly  confidence  to  Eve  as  he  pressed  her 
to  his  bosom.  Eve  whispered  it  in  a  voice  trem 
bling  with  new  emotion.  Forever  has  been  the 
key-note  ever  since  in  the  song  of  happy  lovers." 

All  this  time  the  Crimea  was  bounding  forward 
to  her  fate.  Men  stood  with  folded  arms,  at 
tempting  no  control  over  the  elements.  All  felt 
that  they  were  sweeping  to  a  common  death,  with 
out  a  chance,  without  a  hope,  save  in  Heaven. 

After  a  while  a  roll,  even  more  fearful  than 
any  felt  as  yet,  carried  the  port  bulwark  down  so 
low  that  an  immense  green  wave  swelled  over 
it,  washing  away  everything  it  met,  rushing  like 
a  cataract  down  the  companion-way,  and  bursting 
through  the  broken  hatchways  and  skylight  of 
the  engine-room,  though  these  were  protected 
by  every  spare  sail  to  be  had  on  board  the 
steamer. 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  221 

"  I  must  put  you  out  of  the  reach  of  seas  like 
this,"  her  husband  said  to  Adela ;  and,  drawing 
her  more  closely  to  himself,  to  prevent  her  see 
ing  the  ghastly  objects  which  tossed  in  their 
wake,  he  went  on.  "  Do  you  remember  how  the 
'  skipper's  little  daughter '  was  lashed  to  the 
mast  in  the  ballad  ?  I  am  going  to  lash  you  to 
this  mast,  love.  If  the  ship  goes  down  in  the 
night,  we  shall  go  with  her.  It  will  be  better 
than  being  buffeted  about  in  such  a  sea.  We 
will  quietly  sink,  hand  in  hand,  —  my  wife,  my 
love,  my  life,  —  and  die  together." 

"Better  than  living  on  estranged,"  she  mur 
mured. 

"  But  I  think  she  will  last  till  daylight," 
he  went  on  eagerly,  "and  before  that  time  we 
may  fall  in  with  a  ship.  We  are  in  the  track  of 
vessels.  At  least,  you  will  not  suffer  from  the 
cold,  my  love.  The  '  salt  waves '  will  not  be 
frozen  on  your  breast,  nor  the  '  salt  tears '  in  your 
sweet  eyes." 

"  Ah  ! "  exclaimed  Adela,  "  I  have  often  thought 
of  that  prayer  which  we  have  been  told  to  pray, 
that  danger  may  not  come  upon  us  in  the  winter. 
All  horrors  are  so  aggravated  by  cold." 

The  only  officer  remaining  on  the  ship  was  mak 
ing  his  way  aft,  and  passed  them  at  that  moment 
Even  in  the  awful  pre-occupation  of  his  own  and 
the  ship's  peril,  he  looked  at  them  with  curiosity. 


222  SALVAGE. 

The  colonel  explained  to  him  his  plan  for  secur 
ing  the  women,  speaking  of  Adela  as  his  wife. 

Mr.  Wood,  the  officer,  made  no  remark  on  the 
relationship,  though  in  reply  he  addressed  him, 
with  a  slight  emphasis,  as  "  Mr.  Dobson,"  re 
marking  that  "  Mrs.  Wolcott"  would  suffer  greatly 
from  cramp  and  from  exposure  to  the  spray. 

"But  here  on  deck  she  is  in  constant  peril 
from  these  frightful  lurches,  and  no  one  any 
longer  can  go  down  below,"  said  her  husband. 

Mr.  Wood  said  no  more,  but  turned  into  the 
captain's  little  den,  and  brought  out  blankets  and 
railway  rugs. 

"  Wrap  the  ladies  and  the  child  in  these,"  he 
said.  "  Make  mummies  of  them,  that  they  may 
not  feel  the  ropes,  and  draw  one  end  of  a  rug 
over  their  faces." 

He  assisted  in  doing  this,  first  for  Adela,  then 
for  Emma  Wylie,  then  for  Harrie ;  and  then,  as 
Colonel  Wolcott  lifted  each  a  few  feet  from  the 
deck,  he  lashed  her  to  the  mast,  and  made  fast, 
under  the  belaying  pins,  coils  of  rope,  on  which 
their  feet  might  rest. 

The  colonel  felt  an  unreasonable  but  intoler 
able  pang  of  jealousy  that  anything  which  con 
cerned  the  comfort  of  his  wife,  even  the  tying  of 
a  sailor's  knot,  should  be  thus  taken  from  him. 
He  would  so  gladly  have  performed  every  ser 
vice  for  her  in  the  few  moments  which  remained 
to  them. 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  223 

Harrie  resisted  at  first,  but  yielded  on  persua 
sion.  She  did  not  seem  to  feel  fear,  or  to  be 
conscious  of  physical  suffering,  but  was  much 
subdued  by  the  sense  of  desertion.  Her  little 
heart,  untaught,  untrained,  untamed,  was  be 
numbed  by  the  shock  to  her  instinctive  trust. 

"  I  don't  see  how  she  could  !  I  don't  see  how 
she  could  ! "  she  sobbed  from  time  to  time.  "  I 
thought  all  mammas  took  care  of  their  little  girls, 
but  my  mamma  has  saved  herself  and  left  me  ! " 

"  Horrible  woman ! "  whispered  Colonel  Wol- 
cott  to  Adela. 

She  answered  him  by  a  caress,  but  smiled,  and 
said,  "  Poor  woman  !  "  very  softly. 

"  Could  we  get  anything  to  eat,  Mel  ?  " 

"  Dunno,  Mas '  Lancelot.  I  '11  done  try  get 
inside  the  steward's  pantry." 

But  Mel  could  not  succeed  in  forcing  open  the 
door  that  led  into  the  pantry.  He  brought  back 
only  a  few  spoiled  biscuit,  which  they  shared 
among  them. 

Between  decks  the  water,  colored  black  by 
coal,  had  broken  through  the  bulkheads,  and  was 
setting  everything  movable  afloat,  breaking  up 
even  the  iron  flooring  and  iron  stairways  of  the 
engine-room,  and  making  a  loud,  melancholy 
noise  as  it  plunged  from  side  to  side  of  the 
vessel.  It  seemed  a  deep,  black  tarn. 

"Real   devilish   black,  like   de   ole   pit,    Mas' 


224  SALVAGE. 

Lancelot,"  said  Mel.  "  I  'se  'fraid  look  down  de 
hatchway,  it  's  so  black  !  " 

When  the  women  had  been  made  safe,  as  far 
as  the  pitching  and  tossing  of  the  ship  was  con 
cerned,  Colonel  Wolcott  left  them  for  a  moment, 
hoping  to  be  more  successful  than  Mel  in  his 
search  for  food  or  brandy.  He  made  his  way 
down  to  his  own  state-room,  and  then  tried  again 
to  force  the  pantry-doors,  in  which  he  was  not 
successful. 

By  this  time  the  thunder-storm  had  rolled 
away.  The  dim  clouds  which  had  contained 
the  tempest  had  parted,  lightened  of  their  wrath  ; 
and  the  setting  sun  looked  forth  between  their 
rifts  on  the  ruin  that  the  day  had  made. 

Finding  he  could  get  nothing  to  eat  except 
some  oranges,  Colonel  Wolcott  went  again  into 
his  state-room,  took  a  few  papers  from  his  trunk, 
and  then,  his  hands  trembling  with  haste,  tumbled 
out  a  quantity  of  clothes. 

Adela  had  begged  that  he  would  put  on  dry 
clothing,  and  he  now  obeyed  her  by  dressing  him 
self  from  head  to  foot  as  if  upon  his  wedding-day. 
He  even  smoothed  his  hair  and  passed  a  comb 
through  his  superb  expanse  of  beard.  One  other 
thing  he  searched  for  in  his  trunk  and  found,  and 
then  he  hurried  back  to  Adela. 

It  was  the  impulse  to  pay  her  a  last  tribute, 
to  look  his  very  best  for  this  once  in  her  eyes,  to 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  22$ 

act  the  lover  to  his  wife  for  the  first  time  and  the 
last,  before  they  died  together. 

He  had  tried  to  get  'into  her  state-room  to  se 
cure  for  her  some  little  comforts,  but  he  found 
that  was  not  to  be  done.  Two  feet  of  water  was 
swashing  about  the  ladies'  cabin,  with  books, 
boxes,  shoes,  chairs,  and  other  light  objects  float 
ing  in  it,  while  on  the  lee  side  all  the  heavy  fur 
niture  had  broken  through  the  bulkheads  or  was 
piled  against  the  doors  of  the  state-rooms.  He 
managed  to  get  pillows  and  blankets  from  the 
berths  upon  the  weather-side  of  the  cabin,  and 
then  struggled  back  to  the  deck. 

The  object  which  he  had  taken  from  his  trunk 
was  an  Indian  shawl, — such  a  shawl  as  seldom 
finds  its  way  into  the  lands  of  sunset,  costly  and 
rare  even  to  an  Indian  eye.  It  was  the  gift  of  a 
rajah,  who  had  bestowed  it  on  his  Prankish 
guest  as  an  offering  of  hospitality. 

Colonel  Wolcott  had  laughed  a  little  in  his 
sleeve  over  the  gift.  He  now  remembered  this 
with  a  pang  ;  he  had  smiled,  not  sighed,  to  think 
that  he  was  without  ties  to  any  woman,  had  felt 
amused  by  the  unsuitableness  of  the  princely  gift 
to  his  bachelor  condition.  Now,  with  strange 
pride  and  joy  and  grief,  he  drew  it  forth  for  his 
love's  winding-sheet. 

Returning  to  her  side,  he  saw  by  her  eyes 
that  his  brief  absence  had  disquieted  and  alarmed 


226  SALVAGE. 

her.  He  spread  his  mantle  of  the  East  over  her 
from  head  to  foot.  Even  at  such  a  moment  she 
was  too  truly  a  woman  not  to  feel  delight  in  the 
costly  offering. 

"  O  Lancelot,  is  it  for  me  ? "  she  asked.  "  How 
superb  it  is,  how  soft  and  beautiful !  " 

"  Thank  God  that  I  have  yet  .the  chance  to 
give  it  to  you,  my  wife!"  he  cried,  clasping  his 
arms  around  her  waist  and  resting  his  face  be 
side  her  knees.  Her  little  feet  nestled  into  his 
bosom.  From  time  to  time  he  looked  into  her 
eyes,  which  smiled  back  love  upon  him.  The 
spray  dashed  over  them,  the  billows  raged,  and 
the  s"hip  rolled  ;  but  their  souls,  parted  for  so  long, 
drew  together  like  two  water-drops  at  this  crisis 
of  their  fate,  and  were  fused  into  one  another. 
They  forgave  without  reason,  they  comprehended 
without  speech,  they  trusted  where  they  had  no 
power  to  see.  When  did  lovers  negotiate  recon 
ciliation  ?  When  did  affection  ever  need  a  satis 
factory  explanation  of  past  misunderstandings  ? 

"Are  you  as  comfortable  as  I  can  make  you, 
dearest  ? " 

"Ah,  Lancelot,  I  am  happier  than  I  have  been 
for  years.  It  seems  strange  to  be  so  happy.  I 
wonder  if  it  is  wrong  to  be  so  ?  But  for  me,  you 
might  have  saved  yourself.  Perhaps  God  means 
to  save  us,  after  all.  He  has  heard  my  ofher 
prayers.  He  has  given  me  back  you ! " 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  .22/ 

They  put  no  questions  to  the  officer  now  walk 
ing  on  the  poop,  who  paused  occasionally  at  the 
taffrail  to  note  the  settling  of  the  laboring  vessel. 
He,  too,  was  "  strengthening  up  his  courage  to 
his  fate,"  as  he  thought  of  the  bright  promise  of 
his  life  so  soon  to  end,  of  the  family  who,  far 
away  "  down  East,"  would  mourn  his  fate. 

The  Crimea  no  longer  pitched  so  heavily  ;  for 
the  last  twenty-four  hours  she  had  lain  almost  on 
an  even  keel,  but  her  stern  was  settling  deep,  and 
from  time  to  time  she  gave  an  awful  roll. 

No  one  was  at  the  helm.    The  wheel  had  been, 
lashed  fast  by  a  stout  hawser.     Attempts  to  bail 
or  pump  the  water  out  had  been  given  up  as 
hopeless. 

Now  and  then  Harrie  uttered'  a  little  wail. 
Then  Colonel  Wolcott,  from  where  he  lay,  would 
put  out  his  right  arm  and  clasp  her  fingers.  The 
sense  of  his  protection  seemed  to  comfort  her. 
From  time  to  time  the  dog,  too,  howled  and 
whined.  Adela  was  happy,  Colonel  Wolcott 
anxious,  Emma  Wylie  calm  :  they  were  drifting 
into  death,  astonished  that  death,  the  great 
event  of  life,  should  come  to  them  so  easily. 

Adela  had  almost  ceased  to  pray  ;  her  brain 
had  "grown  too  tired  to  understand"  ;  her  own 
will  and  her  own  heart  seemed  merged  into  the 
Will  Omnipotent  and  the  Love  Eternal. 

"Adela,"  her  husband  whispered  once  in  the 


228  SALVAGE. 


lull  of  the  gale,  "let  me  hear  you  say  once  more 
that  you  love  me  !  " 

And  with  the  old  caress  she  answered,  "  Dear 
Lancelot,  I  have  prayed  daily,  since  a  few  days 
after  you  went  away  from  us,  that  I  might  live 
to  hear  you  say  those  same  words  to  me." 

"  And  suppose  —  suppose  we  should  be  saved 
—  suppose  I  should  again  turn  out  a  harsh,  un- 
sympathizing  husband  —  suppose  that  I  should 
ever  be  unkind  to  you  ? " 

"Then  I  will  think  of  my  own  shortcomings  in 
our  old  married  life.  I  will  remember  that  you 
are  my  own  husband.  You  do  not  know  the 
strength  it  puts  into  a  woman  to  remember  those 
three  words.  You  are  as  much  my  own  by  the 
will  of  God  as  if  we  had  been  born  mated  to  each 
other." 

"  This  is  the  proudest  moment  of  my  life." 

"  My  happiest,"  she  said,  and  laughed  a  faint, 
sweet  laugh.  "  Who  could  imagine  we  should 
be  happy  at  such  a  dreadful  time  ?  Oh,  I  should 
be  so  glad,  except  for  Lance !  How  can  I  give 
up  my  boy  ?  How  can  I  bear  to  leave  him  ? " 

Then,  after  a  pause,  she  added,  "  But  it  is  bet 
ter  for  Lance  even  to  have  us  die  together,  than 
to  see  us  living  estranged.  A  house  divided 
against  itself  cannot  shelter  its  children.  We 
must  give  him  up  as  our  joint  dying  gift  to  his 
Heavenly  Father.  His  grandmother  and  grand- 


TILL  DEATH  DO  PART.  229 

father  will  be  good  to  him,  still  I  wish  you  could 
have  chosen  him  a  guardian.  To  be  a  very  rich 
young  American  is  a  great  trial." 

She  paused ;  then  suddenly  her  self-control 
gave  way.  "  I  cannot  bear  it !  "  she  cried.  "  God, 
give  me  faith  and  trust  enough  to  do  what 
millions  of  other  poor  mothers  do  in  faith,  and 
be  willing  to  give  my  child  up  on  this  strange 
death-bed !  God  has  heard  all  my  other  prayers. 
He  has  given  me  you  back,  I  know  He  will  take 
care  of  Lance  for  me !  It  is  easier  to  trust  him 
to  God  than  to  leave  him  to  man.  But  I  have 
hoped  against  hope,  ever  since  he  was  born,  that 
I  might  live  to  see  my  Lancelots  proud  of  one 
another." 

With  that  she  broke  for  the  first  time  into  wild 
weeping.  When  she  grew  calmer  under  his  com 
forting,  he  said, — 

"  Sing  me  that  hymn  you  sang  on  Sunday, 
three  days  ago,  Adela.  It  went  to  my  heart. 
There  is  hope  in  its  words." 

"  Ah  !"  she  exclaimed,  "  it  is  a  hymn  for  mourn 
ing,  a  burial-service  hymn.  Was  it  for  prepara 
tion  ? " 

"  We  '11  take  it  for  an  omen,"  said  her  husband. 
"  To  me  it  conveyed  hope  in  every  word." 

And  then  her  voice  rose  clear  and  high,  her 
whole  soul  pouring  into  the  notes  as  a  bird  pours 
his  heart  out  in  his  melody:  — 


230 


SALVAGE. 


"  Safe  home,  safe  home  in  port ! 

Rent  cordage,  shattered  deck, 
Torn  sails,  provisions  short, 

And  only  not  a  wreck ! 
But  oh,  the  joy,  upon  the  shore 
To  tell  our  voyage  troubles  o'er ! " 

The  song  floated  to  the  ears  of  the  forlorn 
group  of  men  huddled  round  the  foremast.  They 
raised  their  heads  to  listen.  One  or  two  essayed 
a  feeble  cheer. 

Colonel  Wolcott  responded  only  with  a  sob. 


ON  A  REEF.  23 1 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

ON    A    REEF. 

Ah !  Lord,  for  Thy  love's  sake 
Give  not  this  darling  child  of  Thine 
To  care  less  reverent  than  mine  I 

PROCTER,  Faithful  Forever. 

A  FTER  midnight  Adela  became  restless, 
•£*•  moving  her  arms  and  hands,  apparently 
without  purpose,  and  muttering  low,  as  if  in 
troubled  sleep.  Her  husband  could  not  make 
out  many  of  her  words.  The  night  was  intensely 
dark.  When  he  spoke  to  her  she  did  not  answer 
him. 

The  strain  of  so  many  hours  of  exposure  and 
suspense,  the  cruel  and  perpetual  dash  of  the 
spray,  and  the  want-of  food  were  telling  fearfully 
on  her  strength.  Once  in  a  while  he  thought  he 
could  distinguish  a  low  moan  of  "  Water,  water  !  " 
thirst  probably  being  aggravated  by  the  constant 
salt  wetting. 

Harrie  seemed  to  feel  physical  suffering  less 
keenly  than  her  companions.  Miss  Wylie's  lips 


232  SALVAGE. 

were  closed  in  stern  endurance.  She  was  a 
small,  soft,  plump  creature  in  appearance,  trained 
in  the  self-restraints  of  English  conventional  pro 
priety,  and  braced  to  the  endurance-of  a  martyr. 

When  morning  broke  with  a  faint  glimmer 
over  their  port  bow,  before  it  was  possible  to  see 
near  objects  on  the  deck,  Colonel  Wolcott  glanced 
up  at  the  sky  above  them.  There  were  rugged 
rents  and  rifts  here  and  there  in  the  dun  mass, 
but  its  prevailing  tint  was  a  lurid  slate-color,  with 
low  edgings  of  darker  cloud  fringing .  three  parts 
of  the  horizon. 

-  The  spray  continued  to  be,  as  it  had  been  all 
night,  intolerable,  wetting  them  through  and 
through,  like  a  prolonged  shower-bath.  The  pale 
daylight  grew,  and  at  last  Lancelot  could  see  his 
companions.  The  rugs  which  protected  them 
had  fallen  back,  and  each  face  lay  on  its  wet 
pillow,  calm,  white,  and  still  as  though  carved  in 
marble ;  their  long  hair  hung  down  in  wet 
strands,  encrusted  with  salt  spray,  and  too  heavy 
to  float,  and  all  but  Adela  seemed  to  sleep. 

Emma  Wylie  roused  first.  Her  waking  glance 
was  full  of  great  awe.  Adela's  eyes  were  open, 
—  wide  open,  —  but  neither  memory,  expression, 
nor  intelligence  beamed  from  them.  Her  hus 
band. gave  a  wild  cry  as  he  beheld  her  staring 
vacantly  at  him. 

The  cry  woke  Harrie,  who  had  fallen  into  a 


ON  A  REEF.  233 


troubled  sleep,  and  Miss  Wylie  feebly  moved  and 
tried  to  turn  her  head. 

Worse  than. the  worst  that  he  had  feared  had 
come  upon  them.  Adela  was  dying,  and  in  her 
last  moments  she  would  never  know  how  passion 
ately  he  loved  her. 

He  glanced  despairingly  along  the  deck.  Dur 
ing  the  darkness  it  had  been  swept  by  more  than 
one  great  sea.  The  wreck  had  twice  broached 
to,  then  quivered,  righted,  and  gone  on.  He 
had  fancied  during  the  black  night  that  shrieks 
sounded  above  the  creaking  of  joints  and  the 
howling  of  the  tempest, —  shrieks,  first  shrill, 
then  fainter,  dying  away  along  the  foaming  wake. 
But  he  might  have  been  mistaken  :  his  hearing 
had  grown  confused  in  the  loud  jangle  of  discord 
ant  noises. 

A  few  forms,  he  could  not  tell  how  many,  were 
still  gathered  round  the  stump  of  the  mast,  and 
all  were  gazing  eastward. 

Upon  the  quarter-deck  no  one  remained  except 
themselves  and  Mel,  who  had  not  followed  his 
master's  example  and  advice  to  lash  himself  into 
the  rigging.  He  was  lying  on  the  deck,  with  the 
dog  licking  his  face  and  whining  piteously.  At 
first  Colonel  Wolcott  fancied  that  the  poor  fellow 
was  dead  ;  but  he  was  only  in  a  negro  sleep, 
which  is  almost  as  profound  as  death,  and  can 
be  taken  at  any  moment,  like  that  of  an  animal. 


234  SALVAGE. 


At  his  master's  call  he  roused  himself,  raised 
his  head,  and  looked  about  him.  He  sprang  up, 
instantly,  with  a  sharp  cry.  His  eye,  which  had 
been  trained  to  some  experience  on  shipboard, 
saw  that  the  men  about  the  mast  were  intently 
gazing  at  a  low  speck  in  the  far  distance,  a  light 
line  on  the  horizon  to  the  east.  He  waved  his 
cap,  and  was  the  first  to  shout  "  Land  Ho  !" 

The  fog  was  lifting.  In  half  an  hour,  plain  be 
fore  them,  lay  a  long  line  of  reef,  —  a  rugged  ridge 
of  rocks,  dark  and  grim,  with  pools  and  straits 
and  fiords  on  a  tiny  scale,  running  up  into  the 
hollows  between  the  ridges. 

On  to  this  reef  the  Crimea  was  drifting  head 
long.  The  sea  was  still  boiling  and  foaming,  the 
wind  high  ;  it  had  shifted  a  little,  and  was  now  a 
few  points  west  of  south. 

"  This  is  the  east  coast  of  Ireland,  I  suppose, 
Mel  ?  "  said  his  master. 

"  Yes,  Mas'  Lancelot.  Dere  's  where  dis  ship 
gwine  to  lay  her  bones.  She  '11  strike  her  ole 
ribs  broadside  on  dem  rocks  and  go  to  pieces." 

Nothing  but  a  miracle,  as  it  now  seemed,  could 
save  them.  The  ship  had  not  a  boat  left.  Yet 
to  a  landsman  there  is  an  instinctive  comfort  in 
the  sight  of  land,  even  if  that  land  be  a  lee  shore. 
To  Colonel  Wolcott,  who  had  lived  much  on  the 
Atlantic  coast,  with  nothing  but  the  sea  between 
him  and  the  same  rocks  that  he  now  gazed  upon, 


ON  A  REEF.  235 


there  was  even  a  kind  of  reassurance  in  the  fa 
miliar  sound  of  the  low  roar  of  surf  and  the  dash 
of  breaking  billows. 

His  first  care  was  to  unfasten  the  women. 
The  ship  was  now  much  steadier  than  she  had 
been,  and  .they  could  keep  their  footing.  Miss 
Wylie  and  Harrie  were  too  cramped  and  stiff  to 
stand,  and  very  weak  and  cold.  Both  were  inca 
pable  of  active  thought  or  physical  exertion. 
Adela  shivered  painfully,  uttering  incoherent 
words,  and  occasionally  singing  snatches  of 
hymns  ;  but  her  bodily  powers  seemed  greater 
than  those  of  the  other  two,  and  she  stood  up, 
clinging  to  her  husband. 

The  little  group  awaited  the  moment  of  the 
crash  with  their  eyes  fixed  upon  the  reef,  espe 
cially  on  one  great  rock,  which  stood  out  far  to 
sea,  captain  or  sentinel  to  all  the  rest,  and  over 
which  dashed  a  cloud  of  spray  as  the  full  force  of 
the  sea  broke  against  it  with  a  hollow  roar. 

The  great  hull  of  the  steamship  rolled  majes 
tically  in,  drifting  before  the  gale  directly  towards 
the  centre  of  the  reef,  settling  slowly  into  the 
hollows  of  the  waves  with  each  lift  of  the  green 
heave  under  her. 

As  they  rose  on  the  waves,  houses,  and  even 
people  became  visible  on  the  land  beyond  the 
reef;  but  the  shore  was  parted  from  the  rocks  by 
a  quarter  of  a  mile  of  comparatively  quiet  sea, 


236  SALVAGE. 


the  reef  forming  a  breakwater  to  a  pretty  little 
bay.  A  flagstaff  had  been  planted  in  the  raid- 
die  of  the  reef,  upon  one  of  its  highest  ridges. 

A  sort  of  dull  impatience  took  possession  of 
Colonel  Wolcott.  He  longed  to  strike  and  have 
it  over.  But  the  sailors,  few  in  number  as  they 
were,  animated  by  some  fragment  of  last  hope, 
stimulated  by  the  sight  of  a  new  danger,  or  im 
pelled,  perhaps,  merely  by  the  sailor  instinct  to 
do  their  duty  to  the  bitter  end,  made  a  further 
attempt  to  save  the  vessel. 

If  it  were  possible  to  anchor,  or  to  round  the 
point  of  the  reef  between  the  outlying  black  rock 
and  the  main  ridge,  they  might  yet  be  saved.  But 
six  men  were  left  with  Mr.  Wood,  third  officer,  — 
too  small  a  force  to  work  the  ship  successfully 
in  any  case ;  against  such  odds,  almost  helpless. 
Two  anchors  were  thrown  out,  and  there  was  an 
instant  of  hope  while  one  of  them  seemed  to 
hold ;  but  presently  the  drifting  recommenced, 
and  it  was  evident  that  the  anchor  was  dragging. 
Meanwhile  the  attempt  was  made  to  set  a  top 
sail,  but  again  and  again  the  wet  and  heavy  can 
vas  tore  itself  out  of  their  hands  ;  the  thunder 
of  its  flapping  rose  louder  than  the  voices  of  the 
winds  or  surf,  and  all  efforts  to  alter  the  course 
of  the  ship,  and  to  steer  her  towards  the  west 
end  of  the  reef,  proved  in  vain.  She  rocked  and 
tossed,  she  backed  like  an  uneasy  horse,  ship- 


ON  A  REEF.  237 


ping  great  seas  after  each  attempt;  but  every 
time  her  head  fell  off  again  in  a  shower  of  foam. 
Again  and  again  they  tried,  and  ,again  they 
failed.  At  last  they  gave  it  up,  and  let  her  drift 
unchecked  to  her  doom.  Each  time  she  lifted  on 
a  wave  the  grim  rocks  rose  nearer  to  her  bows, 
white  as  a  bed  of  wool  with  spray  and  foam. 

The  fear  of  death  was  strong  on  Colonel  Wol- 
cott,  who  had  now  so  much  for  which  he  wished 
to  live, —  stronger  than  it  had  been  until  that 
moment.  His  heart  swelled  with  a  great  repent 
ance.  There  were  no  German  questionings  to  dis 
turb  his  spirit  as  he  stood  looking  eternity  in  the 
face,  measuring  with  his  eye  the  lessening  space 
between  Adela  and  himself  and  the  last  enemy. 

The  tide  was  almost  at  the  full,  and  in  many 
places  on  the  rocks  dulse-weed  lifted  its  long, 
leathery  strands  upo'n  the  heave.  The  reef 
seemed  solid  rock  except  for  this  draping  of  dull 
brown.  When  the  ship  struck,  there  would  not 
be  even  the  poor  comfort  of  a  foot  or  two  of 
mother  earth  beneath  them  to  soften  the  shock 
and  receive  their  bones. 

A  man,  the  sturdiest  seaman  left  on  the  wreck, 
was  holding  on  to  a  splinter  of  the  foremast,  with 
his  feet  planted  in  jags  and  rents  made  when  the 
spar  had  broken  off.  He,  too,  was  keeping  a 
lookout  upon  the  reef,  and  calculating  what  rem 
nant  of  life  remained  to  them. 


238  SALVAGE. 


The  tide  sucked  her  in  fast.  The  boom  on 
the  rocks  sounded  nearer  and  louder  each  sec 
ond,  thundering  their  summons  to  eternity. 

Another  moment  and  the  death-blow  fell.  A 
tremendous  roller  lifted  the  Crimea  over  a  low- 
outer  line  of  rocks,  whose  heads  just  showed 
themselves  above  the  surge,  and  carried  her  half 
way  over  the  reef,  raising  her  bodily.  There  was 
a  mighty  heave,  a  grind,  a  crack.  The  ship  quiv 
ered,  and  then  lifted,  with  a  strange  impulse,  and 
crashed  down  into  a  hollow  between  two  rocks, 
where  she  stuck  hard  and  fast.  Her  fate  was 
sealed,  her  race  was  run.  The  elements  might 
work  their  will  upon  her.  She  gave  a  heavy 
lurch  to  port,  and  settled  herself  to  rest,  like  a 
wounded  sea-monster  lying  down  to  die. 

The  concussion  as  she  struck  threw  every  one 
on  deck  against  the  bulwarks  or  upon  their 
faces.  The  ship  lay  motionless,  held  fast  in  the 
grim  jaws  of  the  reef,  at  an  angle  of  about  twenty- 
five  degrees. 

For  one  moment  the  bitterness  of  death  was 
tasted  by  all  on  board,  except  Adela,  who  was 
unconscious  of  all  sensation.  The  moment 
passed.  To  their  surprise,  life  was  still  left 
them.  The  ship  had  not  broken  up  with  the 
shock.  The  men  forward  made  signs  to  Colonel 
Wolcott  to  bring  the  ladies  to  the  forecastle,  for  • 
the  fore  part  of  the  ship  was  tight  wedged  be- 


ON  A  REEF.  239 


tween  the  rocks,  while  the  stern,  which  was  still 
at  the  mercy  of  the  waves,  might  break  off  at 
any  moment,  as  the  tide  ebbed  from  under  the 
vessel. 

They  could  now  plainly  see  people  watching 
them  from  the  shore,  which,  with  its  little  village 
under  a  round  green  hill,  lay  beyond  the  bay 
formed  by  the  reef,  at  least  half  a  mile  away 
from  them.  When  the  tide  at  length  began  to 
ebb,  it  became  evident  that  preparations  were 
making  to  launch  a  boat. 

The  fishermen  of  the  place  were  coming  off  to 
help  them.  Very  tiny  looked  their  little  craft  as 
she  danced  under  her  reefed  lug-sail  over  the  roll 
ers,  which,  even  in  the  sheltered  inner  bay,  were 
still  high  and  dangerous.  It  was  evident  to  those 
on  board  the  Crimea  that  to  get  either  from  the 
ship's  stern  into  the  boat,  or  from  her  bows  upon 
the  reef,  where,  indeed,  the  slippery  dulse-weed 
afforded  no  secure  foothold,  would  be  equally  per 
ilous  ;  nor  even,  had  they  all  been  landed  on 
some  dry  point  of  the  reef,  was  it  easy  to  see  how 
to  transfer  helpless  passengers  into  the  boat  from 
its  steep  iron  edge. 

It  was  also  more  difficult  than  any  landsman 
can  understand  for  the  fishing  skiff  to  approach 
the  wreck  while  she  lay  in  her  present  position. 
She  must  have  been  dashed  to  pieces  had  her 
crew  tried  to  round  the  reef  in  the  wind's  teeth. 


240  SALVAGE. 

They  knew  better  than  to  tempt  fate  by  such  a 
venture,  and  contented  themselves  with  beating 
towards  the  inner  side  of  the  reef,  keeping  as 
much  as  possible  under  shelter  of  the  rocks  that 
formed  a  break-water,  and  there  lay  to. 

Unless  the  men  on  the  Crimea  could  effect  a 
landing  on  the  oozy,  slippery  ledge,  and  thence 
transfer  themselves  to  the  boat  as  she  lay  under 
the  reef,  which  on  the  land  side  seemed  almost 
perpendicular,  those  on  board  now  began  to  think 
that  nothing  could  be  done  for  their  relief  until 
the  storm  was  spent,  before  which  time  it  was 
evident  the  wreck  must  go  to  pieces. 

"  If  a  rope  could  be  got  from  the  end  of  the 
mainyard  and  made  fast  to  the  flagstaff  on  the 
reef,"  thought  Colonel  Wolcott,  "we  might  be 
passed  along  it  by  a  '  basket '  made  of  a  small 
sail,  or  some  other  sailor's  device,. and  then  by  a 
similar  contrivance  they  might  get  us  into  the 
boat  upon  the  other  side."  But  how  was  a  haw 
ser  to  be  got  round  the  flagstaff?  The  sea  was 
still  breaking  over  the  reef  where  the  ship  lay. 
The  mainyard  seemed  on  a  level  with  the  foot 
of  the  staff,  which  was  planted  on  the  highest 
rock  of  the  reef,  about  fifty  yards  away.  The 
Irish  fishermen  were  apparently  not  fertile  in  re 
sources,  or,  with  the  wrecker's  instinct,  were  wait 
ing  for  the  breaking  up  of  the  vessel  to  secure  her 
cargo.  Even  if  willing  to  afford  help,  they  evi- 


ON  A  REEF.  241 


dently  required  direction  from  those  on  board  the 
ship,  and  communication  was,  so  far,  impossible. 

One  or  two  of  the  Crimea's  seamen  made  the 
attempt  to  land  upon  the  reef,  but  it  proved  ut 
terly  impossible.  The  rocks,  dashed  over  by  a 
furious  surf,  and  slippery  with  slimy  weed,  gave 
no  footing. 

"  Our  only  chance,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott,  after 
watching  these  attempts  for  some  time  in  silence, 
"  is  for  some  strong  swimmer  to  find  an  opening 
through  the  rocks,  or  to  weather  the  reef  and 
communicate  with  the  fishermen.  Since  their 
boat  has  got  under  the  lee  yonder,  they  can  see 
neither  us  nor  our  signals.  The  men  in  her 
may  have  some  plan  with  which  we  can  co-oper 
ate.  They  are  doing  nothing,  so  far  as  we  can 
tell.  Very  likely  they  only  half  understand  our 
situation." 

He  looked  at  the  sailors  as  he  spoke,  but  was 
resolved  to  go  himself  if  no  more  suitable  volun 
teer  should  offer.  His  eye  lighted  upon  Mel, 
who  was  already  stripping  off  his  clothing. 

Mel  was  very  agile,  and  in  his  boyish  days  had 
been  renowned  among  his  associates  for  swim- 
.ming  feats. 

"  I  'se  gwine,  Mas'  Lancelot,"  he  said.  "  You 
stay  with  Miss  Adela.  Me  an'  de  pup  will  do  it, 
if  so  be  it  can  be  done !  " 

He  turned  quickly,  shook  the  hand  of  his  mas- 
16 


242  SALVAGE. 

ter ;  and  then,  with  his  bare  feet  pattering  along 
the  deck,  ran  down  the  steep  slope  from  the  fore 
castle  to  the  stern,  flung  off  his  remaining  gar 
ments  on  the  poop,  and,  calling  to  the  dog,  sprang 
over  the  taffrail  into  the  water.  He  held  the  slack 
of  a  light  rope  in  his  hand.  The  dog  plunged 
after  him. 

The  surf  was  still  terrible.  Luckily,  the  tide 
was  now  at  ebb,  but  the  force  of  the  wind  drove 
in  the  waves  with  fury. 

But  for  the  help  of  Jeb,  Mel,  after  his  plunge, 
would  have  been  dashed  back  against  the  chains 
of  the  rudder.  Again  and  again  he  was  whirled 
past  the  yielding,  oozy  weed  that  draped  the  reef, 
snatched  at  its  treacherous  strands,  and  was 
washed  back  again,  grasping  a  handful  of  wet 
dul-se. 

His  shipmates  watched  him  from  the  wreck,  too 
breathless,  too  absorbed,  for  hail  or  cheer.  But 
the  struggle  was  unequal.  At  last  one  vast  bil 
low  was  seen  to  spin  hirn  round,  as  it  rolled  up 
after  whirling  him  against  the  reef,  and  then  it 
bore  him  back,  back,  back  into  the  sea.  He  dis 
appeared,  with  a  black  spot  that  darted  after  him, 
through .  surge  and  foam.  They  saw  another 
roller  lift  up  two  black  specks  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away,  and  after  that  only  the  surf  could  be  seen 
beating  along  the  granite  rocks  of  a  lee  shore. 

After  an  interval  of  suspense,  Jeb  was  perceived 


ON  A  REEF.  243 


running  along  the  bare  part  of  the  reef,  whining, 
and  begging  help  from  those  on  board. 

"  If  we  could  get  a  rope  round  the  dog's  neck, 
and  make  him  reeve  it  round  the  flag-pole,  that 
might  save  us,"  said  a  foremast  man.  But  in 
vain  they  called,  in  vain  they  coaxed  or  threat 
ened.  Jeb  was  the  dog  of  the  ship  no  longer,  he 
was  the  friend  of  Mel;  he  would  do  nothing 
but  run  back  and  forth  along  the  water's  edge, 
•slipping,  whining,  and  mutely  begging  for  aid, 
while  on  the  other  side  of  the  reef  the  Irish  boat 
lay  tossing  uselessly  with  her  crew,  willing,  per 
haps,  but  not  knowing  how  to  afford  the  longed- 
for  help. 

Colonel  Wolcott,  since  the  disappearance  of 
Mel,  had  been  absorbed  in  caring  for  his  wife, 
who  every  moment  was  growing  weaker.  He 
now  roused  himself  and  looked  around  him.  His 
quick  glance  took  in  the  difficulty.  He  placed 
Adela,  with  a  look  of  earnest  pleading,  in  the 
arms  of  Emma  Wylie,  and  ran  out  upon  the  bow 
sprit  which  overhung  the  ridge.  There  were 
several  men  upon  it,  trying  to  coax  the  dog  to 
come  nearer  to  them. 

"  Let  me  try,"  said  the  colonel.  He  whistled. 
The  animal  stopped  at  once  and  pricked  his  ears. 
Colonel  Wolcott  whistled  again.  The  dog  drew 
nearer,  crouching  cautiously,  with  a  low  whine. 
One  of  the  men  far  out  upon  the  bowsprit  threw 
a  noose  over  his  neck  and  captured  him. 


244  SALVAGE. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott.  "  Pay 
out  your  line,  now.  Don't  draw  him  in.  I  '11 
manage  him." 

He  directed  one  of  the  men  to  bring  him  a 
gun,  which  had  been  loaded  and  laid  in  the  cap 
tain's  cabin  to  be  used,  if  necessary,  in  making 
signals.  Again  he  whistled.  Again,  bewildered 
and  surprised,  the  dog  stood  still  and  looked  at 
him. 

Then,  selecting  a  gull  flying  low  over  the  crest 
of  the  reef  not  far  from  the  flagstaff,  he  pointed 
it  out  to  Jeb,  shouting,  "  Dead  bird  !  "  and  fired. 
The  instinct  of  a  well-trained  retriever,  and  his 
obedience  to  the  order  of  the  master  who  had 
trained  him  to  his  work,  prevailed.  Jeb  bounded 
in  the  direction  in  which  the  bird  had  fallen.  He 
passed  the  flagstaff,  impeded  but  not  stopped 
by  the  wet  cord  which  trailed  behind  him. 

As  soon  as  he  was  safely  past  the  staff,  Colonel 
Wolcott  recalled  him.  The  dog  paused.  The  col 
onel  whistled  again.  Jeb  came  back  slowly,  but  he 
returned  without  doubling  round  the  pole,  which 
was  not  what  they  had  hoped  of  him.  Again 
Colonel  Wolcott  shot  and  hied  him  on.  This 
time,  when  the  return  signal  was  given,  Jeb 
obeyed  the  motion  of  his  master's  hand,  and  re 
turned  on  the  right  of  the  flagstaff,  thus  reeving 
the  cord  round  it. 

The  men  cheered.     Colonel  Wolcott  encour- 


ON  A  REEF.  245 


aged  him.  Nearly  choked  by  the  tightening  of 
the  cord  as  he  dragged  it  round  the  flag-pole,  he 
came  nearer  to  the  vessel.  Communication  with 
the  land,  if  they  could  secure  this  cord,  was  now 
attained. 

One  of  the  sailors  lowered  himself  daringly 
from  the  bowsprit,  till  able  to  catch  hold  of  the 
rope's  end.  He  cut  it  loose,  not  being  able  to 
preserve  his  balance  with  the  weight  of  the  dog 
added,  and  his  comrades  all  began  to  haul  in,  with 
a  loud  cheer.  Soon  a  stout  hawser  was  safe 
reeved  round  the  flagstaff,  along  which  several 
sailors  swung  themselves  hand  over  hand. 

Once  at  the  flagstaff,  it  was  easy  to  run  a  line 
out  to  the  Irish  boat,  now  lying  in  smooth  water 
under  the  lee  of  the  reef,  which  was  very  steep 
on  the  side  towards  the  village. 

The  tide,  as  we  have  said,  was  going  down,  and 
the  surf  no  longer  made  a  clean  breach  over  the 
reef.  A  "basket"  for  the  women  was  quickly 
improvised  out  of  a  studding-sail,  and  was  worked 
by  a  guide-line  along  the  hawser,  attended  by  two 
seamen. 

Miss  Wylie  and  Harrie  Tontine  went  first,  that 
Miss  Wylie  might  be  ready  to  receive  Adela, 
whom  the  sailors  would  not  allow  to  be  accom 
panied  by  her  husband.  They  feared  to  put  too 
great  a  strain  upon  the  line  of  communication. 
He  therefore  was  obliered  to  consign  her  to  the 


246 


SALVAGE. 


"basket,"  wrapping  the  India  shawl  around  her 
carefully.  On  the  next  trip  he  followed  her. 
Then  the  "basket,"  after  two  or  three  more  trips 
to  the  ship  to  bring  off  landsmen,  was  attached 
to  another  hawser,  one  end  of  which  was  fast 
ened  to  a  point  of  rock  on  the  land  side  of  the 
reef,  close  to  the  little  boat  which  lay  in  waiting. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  ladies  and  Mr.  Wood,  the 
officer,  were  on  board  of  it,  standing  across  the 
little  bay  in  the  direction  of  the  fishing  village. 

Two  or  three  of  the  Irish  sailors,  beside  the 
crew  of  the  Crimea,  Colonel  Wolcott,  and  the 
other  male  passengers,  were  left,  waiting  for  its 
next  trip.  Mr.  Wood,  indeed,  had  purposely 
pushed  off  the  boat  to  avoid  being  accompanied 
by  "  Mr.  Dobson." 


HOW  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER.    247 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

HOW   WOMAN    MAY    PUT    ASUNDER. 

Not  each  for  each  shall  live,  but  each  for  other. 

MRS.  JULIA  WARD  HOWE,  Words  for  the  Hour.     • 

\  T  first  Colonel  Wolcott  was  wild  with  vexa- 
**•  tion  at  being  thus  forced  to  let  his  helpless 
wife  go  ashore  without  himself  to  keep  guard 
over  her.  But  he  recollected  that  he  had  for 
feited  the  right  to  keep  her,  in  sickness  or  in 
health,  and  had  no  right  to  interfere  with  the 
young  officer  who  had  assumed  the  charge  of  her. 
He  was  told  also  that  the  boat  was  very  small, 
and  that  Mr.  Wood  had  gone  with  the  ladies  in 
order  to  be  able  to  telegraph  at  once  to  the  own 
ers  and  underwriters. 

He  next  endeavored  to  make  arrangements  for 
sending  out  a  party  in  quest  of  poor  Mel,  but 
found  that  none  of  the  sailors  were  willing  to 
waste  time  on  an  uncertain  and  perilous  search 
for  the  body  of  an  under  steward.  They  had 
strict  orders,  they  stated,  from  their  officer  to 
stay  and  look  after  the  vessel.  The  fishermen, 
very  possibly,  might  be  wreckers,  who,  if  un- 


248  SALVAGE. 

watched,  would  quickly  reap  this  harvest  of  the 
ocean. 

That  Mel's  body  was  on  the  reef  the  colonel 
was  convinced,  and  he  thought  it  possible  that 
life  might  still  be  in  him.  He  felt  that  he  owed 
careful  search,  not  only  to  the  brave  fellow  who 
had  been  prompted  to  a  gallant  deed  by  attach 
ment  to  himself,  but  also  to  the  poor  dog,  who 
was  howling  on  the  ridge  of  the  reef,  and  whose 
fidelity  had  saved  all  their  lives. 

He  applied  for  aid  to  the  Irish  fishermen.  They 
had  brought  water,  bread,  and  whiskey  in  their 
boat,  and  their  first  care  had  been  to  give  the 
women  nourishment,  which  had  wonderfully  re 
stored  Harrie  and  her  governess,  and  somewhat 
revived  Adcla,  whom,  through  his  glass,  her  hus 
band  could  see  lying  quietly  in  the  stern-sheets, 
with  her  head  on  the  lap- of  Emma  Wylie. 

The  Irishmen  were  as  little  disposed  as  the 
sailors  to  search  the  reef  for  a  dead  body. 
Colonel  Wolcott  then  proposed  to  go  himself,  and 
found  a  volunteer  to  accompany  him  in  one  of 
the  Irish  party,  a  tall,  strong  man,  who  provided 
both  himself  and  his  companion  with  a  pair  of 
stout  spiked  brogans  and  a  long  pole,  like  an 
alpenstock,  fitted  with  a  bill-hook  at  one  end. 

Staff  in  hand,  and  shod  like  an  Alpine  climber, 
Colonel  Wolcott,  having  refreshed  himself  by  food 
and  drink,  set  out  on  his  search. 


HOW  nv.i/.i.v  .if .IV  /'/•/•  .is.".vf)EJR.    249 

As  they  descended  the  ridge  on  which   the 
morning  sun  was  now  beating,  they  had  a  lull 
side  view  of  their  stranded  ship,  whose  va>: 
and  enormous  height  were  astonishing  as  thus 
seen. 

What  a  prodigy  of  wood  and  iron  she  seemed  ! 
There  she  lay,  with  her  seams  opening,  the  se.i 
rushing  in  upon  her  wave  after  wave,  like  lutt.tl- 
ions  reinforced  by  fresh  battalions,  each  billow 
dealing  a  resounding  blow  upon  the  yawning 
timbers.  Her  joints  were  all  .agape,  her  wounds 
were  widening. 

"Thank  God!  "said  Colonel  Wolcott,  with  .1 
sigh  of  relief.  "  Adela  is  safely  out  of  her." 

The  dog  was  waiting  for  them  on  the  ii 
and  seemed  to  know  their  errand  ;  he  led  them 
along  the  reef,  where  again  and  again,  but  tor 
their  shoes  and  poles,  they  must  have  lost  their 
footing.  Colonel  Wolcott  had  a  ship's  glass  with 
him,  ami  from  the  higher  points  made  a  care- 
fid  survey  of  the  rocks,  but  nothing  was  to  be 
seen  of  Mel.  Still,  dead  or  alive,  he  must  be 
somewhere  near,  they  thought,  for  the  dog  ran 
bark  to  fawn  on  them  and  trembled  with  excite 
ment 

At  last  they  reached  a  sort  of  gully  in  the 
rocks  into  which  the  waves  foamed  furiously. 
Across  this  the  dog  took  his  way,  jumpm:;  Mom 
shelf  to  shelf,  and  the  men  followed.  When  they 


250  SALVAGE. 

came  to  the  edge  of  the  gully,  they  looked  down 
into  a  tiny  cave  or  bay,  roofed  with  black  stones 
and  floored  with  sparkling  shingle.  From  this 
point,  black  rocks,  invisible  at  high  tide,  seemed 
to  extend  far  out  to  sea,  rising,  like  the  backs  of 
porpoises,  above  the  slaty  blue  of  the  ocean. 

Stooping  over  and  looking  down  as  the  dog 
came  to  a  point,  they. saw  poor  Mel  immediately 
below  them. 

The  dog,  as  they  guessed,  had  dragged  him  out 
of  the  surf,  for  there  were  the  marks  of  his  paws 
above  the  water-line.  He  sprang  down  when  he 
perceived  that  they  saw  what  he  had  come  to 
show  them,  and  threw  himself  upon  the  body, 
licking  its  face  with  moans  that  were  almost  like 
a  human  cry. 

Poor  Mel  lay  with  his  face  upturned  to  the 
sun's  glare,  his  legs  outstretched  in  a  small  pool 
left  under  a  round  rock  by  the  retreating  tide. 

The  Irishman  and  Colonel  Wolcott  raised  him. 
His  face  looked  very  calm.  His  wet  limbs  shone 
like  a  bronze  statue  in  the  sun.  There  were 
many  wounds  about  his  face  and  breast,  but  none 
that  seemed  enough  to  kill  him. 

"  He  is  not  dead.  His  heart  beats !  I  can  feel 
it !  "  cried  the  colonel. 

They  had  brought  whiskey  with  them,  some  of 
which  they  now  poured  down  his  throat.  After 
a  while  he  opened  his  eyes,  but  his  left  arm  hung 


HOW  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER.    251 

powerless.  They  put  it  in  a  sling,  and  with 
difficulty  and  danger,  and  at  great  cost  of  time, 
got  him  over  the  reef  to  the  flagstaff,  when  his 
shipmates  relieved  them,  and  carried  him  down 
to  the  landing-place,  where  the  boat  was  now 
waiting  to  receive  a  second  load. 

Colonel  Wolcott  suffered  during  this  interval 
an  intolerable  agony  of  mind.  Mel,  saved,  though 
still  insensible,  no  longer  occupied  his  thoughts. 
Paddy  Byrne,  the  Irishman,  had  told  him  there 
was  a  doctor  in  the  village.  What  might  that 
authority,  in  whose  hands  life  and  death  seemed 
to  lie,  have  said  by  this  time  of  the  condition  of 
Adela  ? 

The  village  before  them  appeared  a  straggling 
hamlet,  desolate  and  wild  enough  to  be  a  nest  of 
wreckers.  He  remembered,  with  sudden  alarm, 
that  Adela  had.  valuable  rings  upon  her  fingers, 
and  that  a  priceless  shawl  was  wrapped  about 
her. 

He  questioned  the  men  as,  relieved  of  the 
burden  of  poor  Mel,  they  went  down  the  slope 
of  the  reef  together. 

The  men  told  him  that  the  ladies  would  most 
probably  be  taken  to  the  house  of  the  rector,  Mr. 
Darrell,  and  pointed  it  out  on  the  side  of  a  round 
hill,  at  the  foot  of  which  nestled  the  village. 

"Is  Mr.  Darrell  the  Protestant  rector  of  the 
place  ? " 


252  SALVAGE. 

"  Shure  he's  no  less,  may  it  plaze  your  honor." 

"  Has  he  a  wife  ?  " 

"  True  for  your  honor,  and  too  true,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Is  she  not  a  good  woman  ? " 

"  I  Ve  nothing  anent  her.  I  would  not  be  asy 
if  I  got  any  one's  ill  will." 

"  Will  she  take  good  care  of  my  wife  ?  " 

"  That  I  could  n't  say,  at  all,  at  all.  That  '11 
be  as  it  happens,  plaze  your  honor." 

By  further  pains  and  pressing,  Colonel  Wolcott 
got  himself  "discomfortably  "  informed  that  Mrs. 
Darrell  was  a  woman  very  unpopular  among  her 
Roman  Catholic  neighbors. 

"  His  rivirince,  Mr.  Darrell,  was  a  quite  man," 
Paddy  said,  "  but  his  lady  was  the  divil  for  med 
dling.  She  had  n't  no  childer,  an'  no  rale  work 
at  all  to  do  in  life,  and  was  always  for  making 
some  trouble  out  of  nothing.  She  'd  be  good 
enough  belike  to  the  strange  lady  for  a  time, 
that  is,  if  she  took  a  fancy  to  her.  But  it  was 
bad  luck  for  them  all  when  she  came  into  the 
village.  It  was  a  pity  that  the  likes  of  her 
could  n't  be  put  to  slape  for  twenty  or  thirty 
hours  in  the  twenty-four  hours  of  the  day." 
Paddy  evidently  thought  that  even  the  tender 
mercies  of  the  rector's  wife  were  precarious  and 
undesirable. 

"  And  about  this  poor  mulatto  boy  who  is  my 


HOW  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER.    253 

servant,  and  my  dog,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott, 
more  and  more  anxious  to  get  back  to  Adela. 
"  How  can  I  get  them  cared  for  ?  Is  there  an 
inn,  or  even  a  pot-house,  in  the  village  ? " 

"  There  is  n't  a  public  in  the  place  at  all,  at 
all,  your  honor.  There  's  a  shebeen,  but  that 's 
two  miles  off,  over  the  hill,  an'  it  has  n't  but  the 
one  room  in  it.  Anybody  will  be  proud  to  take 
the  dog  and  man-servant  for  your  honor." 

"  Won't  you  do  it  yourself,  Paddy  ?  "  the  colo 
nel  said.  "  I  '11  pay  you  handsomely.  Have  you 
a  cottage  ?  " 

He  hesitated. 

"  With  all  the  pleasure  in  life,  only  may  be 
your  honor's  servant  would  be  after  wanting 
more  nor  the  likes  of  us  could  offer  him." 

"  Your  cottage  is  better  than  the  hut  where  he 
was  born,  on  my  estate,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott, 
making  a  mental  inventory  of  the  rags  and  make 
shifts  of.  Mel's  native  cabin.  "  What  he  wants  is 
care  and  kindness.  I  shall  pay  for  these,  and  for 
any  comforts  he  may  need,  and  for  the  doctor." 

He  put  his  hand  into  his  breast-pocket,  and 
then  refrained  from  drawing  out  his  purse,  for 
his  doubts  had  returned,  and  he  recollected  that 
it  might  be  dangerous  to  let  it  be  known  that  he 
had  money  about  him. 

By  this  time  they  had  reached  the  water's 
edge.  The  men  in  the  boat  told  him  that  the 


254  SALVAGE. 

ladies  and  little  girl  had  been  carried  to  Mr.  Dar- 
rell's  house,  and  pointed  up  the  hill  to  a  white 
edifice  of  some  pretensions. 

"  His  rivirince,  Father  Joe,  is  waiting  at  the 
landing-place,"  they  said,  "  to  offer  his  house  to 
the  jantleman." 

"  He  is  very  kind  and  hospitable,"  said  Colonel 
Wolcott,  "  but  I  shall  go  with  my  wife  if  the  rector 
can  take  me  in ;  if  not,  I  must  stay  as  near  to 
her  as  possible." 

He  said  the  same  thing,  on  landing,  to  Father 
Joe,  who  met  him  on  the  little  jetty  with  a  hos 
pitable  invitation.  The  father  then  offered  to 
see  after  Mel  and  the  dog,  who,  under  his  super 
intendence,  were  transported  to  Paddy  Byrne's 
cottage,  while  Colonel  Wolcott  set  off  at  full 
speed  to  the  rectory.  The  hill  was  very  steep, 
and  as  he  mounted  he  realized,  for  the  first 
time,  the  full  measure  of  his  weakness  and  ex 
haustion. 

"  There 's  Mr.  Dobson,  I  declare,  coming  up 
here,"  cried  Harrie  Tontine,  who  was  terribly 
herself  by  this  time,  and  was  looking  out  of  the 
rectory  window.  "  He 's  the  man  we  had  on 
board  under  a  false  name.  They  said  he  was 
a  thief  or  a  defaulter,  or  something  of  that 
kind.  He  acted  real  queer  about  Mrs.  Wolcott. 
First  place  he  frightened  her,  and  tried  to  put 
his  arm  round  her  on  the  hurricane  deck  one 


HO  W  WOMA  N  MAY  PUT  AS  UNDER.    255 

evening,  and  the  officers  were  going  to  interfere, 
when  I  knocked  down  both  of  them.  Then  after 
wards,  when  he  tied  us  up  in  the  rigging,  and  we 
could  not  help  ourselves,  he  kept  kissing  her  and 
kissing  her  like  everything." 

"  Little  girl,"  cried  the  rector's  lady,  "  I  trust 
he  is  not  coming  to  my  house.  Shelah,  Shelah  !  " 
to  her  maid,  "  don't  let  that  man  come  inside  of 
this  door.  Do  you  hear  now  ? '' 

Colonel  Wolcott,  panting  and  very  pale,  entered 
the  wicket-gate  of  the  rector's  garden.  His 
appearance  was  not  in  his  favor.  The  new 
clothes  of  the  previous  night  were  dirty,  wet,  and 
ragged  ;  his  beard  was  matted,  full  of  sand  and 
sea-weed  ;  he  had  lost  his  own  hat,  and  had  ac 
cepted  the  tarpaulin  of  a  fisherman. 

To  his  eager,  breathless  questions,  "  How  is 
my  wife,  Mrs.  Wolcott?  Can  I  see  her?"  She 
lah  was  a  good  deal  puzzled  to  reply. 

"  The  lady  is  very  ill,  sir.  I  was  to  say  as  you 
could  not  come  in.  You  had  better  come  again 
and  see  the  master." 

"  I  cannot  go  in  ?  Who  says  so  ?  "  said  Colonel 
Wolcott,  putting  his  shoulder  against  the  sill  of 
the  door.  "  Ask  Mrs.  Darrell  to  speak  to  me. 
Say  that  I  am  Colonel  Wolcott,  the  lady's  hus 
band." 

At  this  Mrs.  Darrell,  who  had  been  listening 
behind  her  parlor-door,  came  from  her  hiding- 
place,  with  Harrie  grinning  behind  her. 


256  SALVAGE. 

"  Madam,  I  am  Colonel  Wolcott.  Have  the 
goodness  to  tell  me  how  my  wife  is,  and  to  show 
me  to  her  room." 

"  Go  away,  sir!  "  she  said  sternly.  "  Do  not  in 
trude  your  most  unworthy  self  into  the  presence 
of  a  lady  who  may  be  dying,  for  all  you  know. 
Your  character  has  been  exposed,  and  is  known. 
Leave  my  house  immediately  !  " 

"  Madam,"  cried  Colonel  Wolcott,  "  you  are 
under  some  very  serious  misapprehension.  I  am 
Colonel  Wolcott,  the  Asiatic  traveller,  whose 
book  you  may  possibly  have  heard  of.  I  can  re 
fer  you  to  the  American  ambassador  in  London, 
or  to  my  publisher.  The  lady  under  your  care  is 
Mrs.  Wolcott,  my  wife,  from  whom  I  have  been 
parted  during  my  wanderings  for  the  past  nine 
years.  I  demand  to  see  her.  You  have  no  right 
to  keep  me  from  her." 

"  My  mamma  said  that  Mrs.  Wolcott  was  n't 
your  wife,"  put  in  Harrie  Tontine  at  this  juncture. 

"There,  sir,  you  hear  what  the  child  says 
about  you.  Go  away  at  once,  or  I  will  have 
you  put  out  of  my  gate  by  force.  You  are  not 
the  man  that  you  profess  to  be.  You  are  Mr. 
Dobson,  an  impostor,  a  man  under  a  false  name, 
a  defaulter  and  thief  for  aught  I  know,  or  an 
escaped  convict,  perhaps  a  ticket-of-leave-man,  a 
murderer  ! " 

At   this   moment   her   raised   voice  attracted 


HOW  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER. 


Emma  Wylie,  who  looked  out  of  an  upper  win 
dow,  —  the  window  of  Mrs.  Wolcott's  room. 

"  Miss  Wylie,"  cried  out  Colonel  Wolcott, 
"  for  humanity's  sake,  tell  me  how  she  is,  what 
the  doctor  thinks  of  her  !  " 

"  He  thinks  she  must  be  kept  very  quiet,  Mr. 
Dobson  ;  and  your  voice  has  made  her  restless," 
replied  Miss  Wylie. 

"  Come  down,  then,  if  you  please,"  said  he. 

A  moment  after  Miss  Wylie  came  downstairs, 
and  stood  in  the  entry. 

His  voice  was  hoarse  and  hard,  his  eyes  blood 
shot  and  angry.  He  restrained  himself,  however, 
and  in  a  whisper  said  excitedly,  — 

"  Tell  this  —  this  lady,  Miss  Wylie,  who  I  dare 
say  means  well,  that  Mrs.  Wolcott  repeatedly 
acknowledged  me  to  be  her  husband." 

Emma  Wylie  hesitated. 

"  Speak,  Miss  Wylie  !  " 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Dobson,"  she  said,  bursting  into 
tears,  "  I  cannot  bear  to  give  you  pain.  I  owe 
you  a  great  deal.  You  saved  our  lives.  But  I  can 
not  say  what  is  not  true.  I  do  not  remember  Mrs. 
Wolcott's  saying  that  she  was  your  wife,  though 
during  our  last  dreadful  day  and  night  many 
things  that  I  did  not  hear  may  have  been  going 
on  between  you.  I  understood  Mrs.  Tontine, 
who  often  spoke  about  it  in  our  state-room, 
that  Mrs.  Wolcott  was  a  lady  who  had  been  di- 
17 


258  SALVAGE. 


vorced  from  her  husband,  who  was  somewhere 
in  India  ;  that  she  was  very  rich,  and  was  going 
home  to  her  family." 

"  But  /  am  Colonel  Wolcott,  her  husband  ; 
and  I  do  not  think  that  we  have  been  divorced. 
If  we  have,  we  shall  be  remarried  immediately. 
I  only  ask  to  see  her,  to  be  with  her,  till  she  gets 
better." 

"  It  is  as  disreputable  a  piece  of  business  as 
any  I  ever  heard  of,"  said  Mrs.  Darrell.  "  I  don't 
want  any  divorced  people  in  my  house,  —  nor 
any  impostors,  either.  Here,  Mr.  Darrell,  Mr. 
Darrell ! "  she  cried,  as  that  gentleman  came 
slowly  into  his  own  garden,  "  what  must  we  do 
about  this  fellow  ?  Here  is  a  man  who  will  not 
go  away,  who  says  the  lady  who  is  so  ill  is  his 
wife,  and  wants  me  to  let  him  go  up  to  her  room. 
The  child  and  the  young  lady  both  declare  that 
he  is  not  her  husband  ;  that  she  is  a  divorced 
woman  whom  he  has  been  paying  attentions  to 
on  board  the  steamer ;  that  he  is  travelling  under 
a  false  name,  and  is  a  disreputable  character. 
They  knew  him  on  board  ship  as  Mr.  Dobson." 

By  this  time  the  strain  of  so  many  hours  of 
exertion,  privation,  and  excitement  had  told  on 
Colonel  Wolcott.  He  staggered,  and  leaned,  faint 
and  sick,  against  the  door. 

"  Allow  me,  sir,"  he  said,  "  to  explain  the  mat 
ter  privately." 


HOW  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER.    259 

"  Indeed,  you  shall  do  no  such  thing,  Mr.  Dar- 
rell.  Anybody  can  take  you  in,  as  we  all  know," 
cried  his  wife. 

"  My  dear,  my  dear ! "  said  Mr.  Darrell. 
"  Softly,  my  dear,  I  beg  of  you.  Remember  the 
poor  man  has  just  been  through  great  suffering 
and  exposure.  If  I  may  so  express  myself  with 
out  irreverence,  '  a  night  and  a  day  he  has  been 
in  the  deep ' ;  and  "  (lowering  his  voice)  "  I  have 
reason  to  believe  he  is  a  little  out  of  his  mind." 

Here  Harrie,  Mrs.  Darrell,  and  Miss  Wylie  put 
their  heads  together,  as  he  whispered  for  their 
information  :  "  They  say  down  on  the  beach  that 
he  has  a  monomania  for  claiming  everything. 
He  spoke  of  his  servant,  who  turns  out  to  be 
the  ship's  steward  ;  and  of  his  dog,  a  Gordon 
setter,  that  has  been  ten  voyages  in  the  Crimea. 
They  say  he  offered  to  pay  for  attendance  on  the 
dog  and  steward,  but  did  not  show  his  money. 
Let  me  get  him  away  quietly.  The  poor  man  is 
in  want  of  rest  and  food." 

"Worse  and  worse!"  said  Mrs.  Darrell.  "A 
crazy  man  and  a  divorced  woman !  I  never 
wished  to  have  anything  to  do  with  Americans. 
American  cousins,  indeed,  as  people  in  public 
speeches  call  them !  I  don't  believe  that  Ameri 
cans  are  more  respectable  than  any  other  for 
eigners.  Where  is  the  officer  ?  " 

"  Gone  to  Killarney  to  telegraph  to  his  owners 


260  SALVAGE. 


and  the  Trinity  House.  He  says  the  Crimea's 
owners  will  pay  all  reasonable  expenses,  and  that 
the  lady  upstairs  is  very  rich,  —  so  that 's  all 
right,  my  love  !  " 

Here  Adela's  voice  was  heard  through  the  open 
window  of  her  chamber,  singing  dreamily,  — 

"  Safe  home,  safe  home  in  port ! 
Rent  cordage,  shattered  deck, 
Torn  sails,  provisions  short, 
And  only  not  a  wreck !  " 

Colonel  Wolcott  flushed  deeply  and  started  to 
his  feet,  then  sank  down  again  with  a  sigh,  and 
buried  his  face  in  his  hands. 

The  Darrells  were  more  convinced  than  ever 
that  he  was  crazy. 

"  Now  go,  Mr.  Dobson,  there  's  a  good  man," 
said  Mr.  Darrell.  "  You  may  disturb  the  lady. 
I  '11  walk  a  little  way  with  you  down  the  hill.  I  '11 
go  down  on  the  wharf  and  find  a  place  for  you. 
You  want  a  little  care  yourself  after  your  ship 
wreck.  It  will  do  you  good  to  see  the  doctor." 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  I  intend  to  see  the  doctor  when  he 
comes  out  of  your  house,  after  his  next  visit  to 
my  wife,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott ;  "  and  I  will  see 
him  here" 

So  saying,  he  seated  himself  on  a  large  stone 
outside  the  gate  of  the  rectory,  where  for  some 
time  he  remained  motionless,  overcome  by  the 
prolonged  strain  of  the  past  week ;  for  this  was 


HOW  WOMAN  MAY  PUT  ASUNDER.    261 

Wednesday,  the  loth  of  June,  six  days  after  our 
narrative  commenced,  and  not  quite  a  week  since 
we  saw  him  running  gayly  down  the  steps  after 
the  Minister's  ball,  rejoicing  in  his  literary  suc 
cess,  and  congratulating  himself  that  he  was  free 
from  all  domestic  obligations. 

How  much  may  happen  in  a  week ! 


262  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

IN    SICKNESS. 

The  rainbow  never  shines  over  our  hearts  in  all  its  beauty  till  a  storm 
has  cleared  the  atmosphere. 

JEAN  PAUL  RICHTER. 

that  same  day,  Wednesday,  the  loth  of 
June,  old  Mrs.  Peter  Engels  sat  in  her 
matted,  shrouded,  darkened  New  York  house, 
putting  away  carpets,  tying  up  camphor-bags, 
laying  linen  up  in  lavender,  sewing  furs  into  old 
pillow-slips,  —  "  fixing  things,"  as  she  would  have 
defined  her  work,  for  her  annual  flitting  to  her 
country-house  on  the  North  River. 

She  intended  to  leave  the  city  so  soon  as  Adela 
should  reach  home.  At  that  season  of  the  year 
the  Crimea,  a  fine  boat,  though  an  old-fashioned 
one,  was  sure  to  have  a  swift,  smooth  passage. 
They  had  already  read  in  the  "  Shipping  News  " 
of  her  departure  from  Queenstown.  In  five  more 
days,  at  furthest,  she  would  be  off  Sandy  Hook. 
Eight  days  from  land  to  land,  even  though  the 
passage  from  Europe  to  America  is  proverbially 


IN  SICKNESS.  263 


up  hill,  would,  at  that  season  of  the  year,  be  no 
unheard-of  passage. 

The  old  lady  was  where  she  best  loved  to  be, 
in  her  own  convenient  store-room,  when  she 
heard  her  husband's  step  on  the  marble  pave 
ment  of  the  outer  entry. 

The  wife  of  a  man  of  business  dreads  her  hus 
band's  return  home  in  business  hours.  It  never 
portends  anything  but  evil.  He  is  ill ;  he  has 
had  bad  news,  —  some  telegram,  some  worry. 
He  would  never  come  "  up  town  "  at  that  hour 
of  the  day  if  he  had  good  news  to  communicate. 
A  pleasant  surprise  can  "  keep,"  and  would  almost 
certainly  be  deferred  till  the  dinner-hour. 

So,  when  Mrs.  Engels  heard  her  husband's 
step,  as  she  stood  among  her  jam-pots  and  napery, 
the  heart  gave  a  great  throb  in  her  broad,  moth 
erly  bosom.  She  took  off  her  white  apron,  and 
went  forth  prepared  to  meet  misfortune. 

Her  look  into  her  husband's  face  did  not  reas 
sure  her,  and  she  exclaimed  at  once,  "  What 's 
wrong  with  you,  husband  ?  " 

The  old  man  drew  her  into  the  breakfast- 
parlor,  and  shut  the  door.  She  put  her  two 
soft,  withered  hands  upon  his  shoulders,  rested 
her  gray  head  against  his  breast,  and  said  again, 
in  a  low  voice,  "  Tell  me  quick,  Peter !  I  see  bad 
news  is  coming." 

"  It 's  Adela  !  "  he  cried.      "  The  Crimea  has 


264  SALVAGE. 

been  wrecked.  Broke  her  shaft  when  one  day 
out,  became  unmanageable,  and  was  run  ashore 
somewhere  on  the  coast  of  Ireland.  Some  of  her 
passengers  were  taken  off  by  a  sailing  vessel,  but 
many  have  been  lost.  Two  ladies  and  a  child 
were  on  board  of  her  this  morning  when  she 
went  ashore.  I  have  telegraphed  to  know  their 
names.  The  Morea,  of  the  same  line,  sails  at 
twelve  o'clock.  I  have  come  home  to  put  to 
gether  a  few  things,  and  I  think  I-  had  better  go 
out  in  her.  There  may  be  some  great  trouble 
about  Lance ;  for,  Maggie,  I  never  told  you,  but 
Deane  got  a  cable  telegram  two  days  ago  from 
Smith,  advising  him  that  Wolcott  had  found 
them  out  in  Liverpool,  and  that  he  was  on  board 
the  Crimea  with  Adela." 

"  Dear  heart !  dear  heart !  "  cried  Mrs.  Engels, 
"  and  she  had  no  one  to  protect  her.  Poor,  poor 
girl !  And  she  has  always  been  so  ready  to 
make  up  with  him,  talking  about  her  duty  as  his 
wife,  bringing  up  her  little  boy  to  make  a  sort  of 
hero  of  him,  reading  his  book  as  if  it  were  her 
Bible,  and  always  thinking  of  him,  in  spite  of  all 
that 's  past,  as  any  happy  wife  might  think  on 
her  child's  father." 

"  I  gave  him  up  as  a  bad  bargain  nine  years 
ago;  she  never  could  have  got  any  good  of  him, 
—  a  supercilious  Southerner,"  said  the  old  man. 
"But  mother,  I  must  make  haste." 


IN  SICKATESS.  265 


A  loud  ring  at  the  hall-door  interrupted  them. 
Mr.  Engels  answered  it  himself,  and  returned, 
bringing  a  telegram. 

"An  answer  to  my  question,"  he  said. 

"  SAVED  IN  FIRST  CABIN  :  Mrs.  Wolcott,  Miss 
Wylie,  Miss  Tontine,  Mr.  Dobson.  Mrs.  Wolcott 
at  Ballinasloe,  very  ill." 

"Husband,  I  must  go  with  you." 

"  Be  quick  then." 

In  half  an  hour  Mrs.  Engels's  maid,  a  woman 
who  had  lived  with  her  for  twenty  years,  had  put 
a  few  changes  of  raiment  in  two  bags,  and  found 
herself  left  in  charge  of  the  deserted  house  and 
several  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of  valua 
bles,  while  her  master  and  her  mistress  were  driv 
ing  as  rapidly  as  their  fat  carriage-horses  would 
go  along  the  wharves  of  New  York  to  the  Morea. 

There  was  no  fear  that  Peter  Engels  and  his 
wife  would  find  no  state-room  on  a  crowded 
steamer.  For  a  millionaire  like  Mr.  Engels,  the 
captain  would  have  given  up  his  own  cabin  if 
necessary. 

Other  accommodation  was,  however,  available, 
and  every  attention  was  paid  to  them  on  board  ; 
but  the  two  poor  old  rich  people  clung  only  to 
gether  during  their  sad  voyage,  lonely,  excepting 
for  each  other's  sympathy,  their  very  wealth  seem 
ing  to  isolate  them  from  the  rest  of  the  Morea's 
little  world. 


266  SALVAGE. 

"  Ah  !  Maggie,"  the  old  man  would  say  to  his 
wife,  as  they  stood  sorrowfully  looking  over  the 
taffrail  at  the  wake,  which,  flashing  in  the  sun 
light,  seemed  to  mark  a  golden  pathway  back  to 
their  golden  home,  "  it  is  not  money,  it  is  the 
home  relationships  that  money  cannot  bring 
that  make  the  real  good  in  this  world.  The  best 
things  to  be  had  in  life  are  common  to  us  all,  to 
poor  or  rich  alike,  —  health,  light,  air,  marriage, 
children.  Sometimes  I  think  the  Lord  is  pun 
ishing  me  for  being  so  rich  a  man." 

"  No,  Peter  dear,"  said  the  old  wife,  "  don't 
think  hard  thoughts  of  him.  God  is  not  so  fond 
of  punishing  as  people  make  him  out  to  be.  You 
have  never  wronged  any  man  of  a  cent,  and  have 
always  been  charitable  and  thoughtful  about 
others.  The  Lord  has  prospered  you  as  he  did 
Joseph  and  David  and  Abraham.  You  have  been 
good  to  your  wife,  and  to  all  women  you  have 
had  anything  to  do  with.  I  lay  great  stress  on 
that,  for  I  have  always  believed  that  that  counts 
more  in  a  man's  luck  than  people  seem  to  think. 
You  have  had  pleasure  in  making  money,  and 
why  should  n't  you  ?  Writers  have  pleasure  when 
they  succeed  in  making  books,  sculptors  in  mak 
ing  their  statues.  We  all  like  to  do  what  we  do 
well." 

"  Perhaps  so,  but  maybe  I  ought  not  to  be  so 
rich.  I  do  not  know.  And  now  I  have  got  the 


SICKNESS.  267 


money,  what  good  does  it  all  do  to  you  or  me  or 
Adela  ?  The  only  thing  we  really  cared  for  was 
our  children.  Our  little  fellows  died  before  I  grew 
so  rich,  and  left  us  only  Adela.  We  educated 
her  at  great  expense  ;  we  even  sent  her  away  from 
us  to  school,  though  it  was  a  sacrifice,  because 
we  were  told  that  was  the  right  thing  to  be  done. 
All  our  plans  were  for  her.  We  would  have 
bought  her  a  good  husband,  and  not  have  grudged 
his  weight  in  gold,  could  that  have  made  her 
happy.  We  did  get  one  for  her  who  appeared 
like  the  right  thing,  —  fashionable,  well-connected, 
clever,  and  they  told  us  without  vice ;  and  she 
was  fond  of  him.  There  was  absolutely  nothing 
against  him.  It  seemed  as  if  we  had  done  the 
very  best  we  could  for  her;  and  in  three  months 
all  the  fat  was  in  the  fire.  Poor  Adela  !  - —  the 
nicest,  dearest  girl  in  all  the  world,  but  so  dif 
ferent  from  other  married  women.  Why,  she  is 
only  six-and-twenty  now,  and  it  makes  my  heart 
ache  to  see  how  little  good  she  has  had  out  of  her 
life  or  our  money  ;  how  she  lives  under  a  cloud, 
and  keeps  away  from  people,  and  is  shy  and  out 
of  place.  I  'd  pay  *a  million  of  dollars  down  — 
gold,  bonds,  or  greenbacks  —  to  bring  her  back 
the  only  man  she  wants,  and  to  keep  him  if  we 
could  get  him  for  her." 

"  It    will  come  right,   Peter,    somehow,   some 
day.     Just  you  trust  and  wait,  husband.     Maybe 


268  SALVAGE. 


he  is  dead,  drowned  you  know ;  or,  maybe,  if  he 
is  there,  at  this  very  moment  they  are  making  it 
up  togethej." 

"  No,  there  was  only  one  male  cabin  passenger 
saved.  I  know  the  man,  —  an  Englishman  ;  he 
travels  for  a  dry-goods  house  up  town.  And, 
even  if  Wolcott  were  alive,  they  would  never 
come  together.  It  is  better  as  it  is  for  us  and 
Adela.  I  saw  enough  of  him  to  know  that  if  he 
got  the  upper  hand  he  would  part  us  from  her. 
That  plan  of  getting  them  divorced  did  not  suit 
Adela.  Maggie,  you  could  not  have  flared  up 
quicker  than  she  did,  had  I  proposed  to  be  di 
vorced  from  you.  Poor,  dear  Adela !  I  'd  settle 
a  million  down  and  never  grudge  it  if  that  would 
bribe  him  to  be  kind  to  her.  He  's  a  refined, 
distinguished  sort  of  fellow,  and  would  make  a 
good  use  of  it ;  but  the  worst  of  those  Southerners 
is  that  they  pride  themselves  on  despising  money, 
(they  like  to  spend  it  though) ;  and  he  looks  down 
upon  us  all,  I  do  believe,  chiefly  because  we  are 
richer  than  he  is." 

"  O  father,  never  fear  !  All  is  bound  to  come 
right  somehow,"  said  the  old  wife,  returning  to 
her  hopeful  formula.  "  Married  love  cannot 
be  bribed  by  dollars  ;  it  does  not  grow  out  of 
gold-dust,  but  often  it  springs  up  in  very  poor 
soil.  You  have  been  a  good  man,  and  have  done 
good  all  your  life,  and  never  harmed  the  widow 


IN  SICKNESS.  269 


or  the  fatherless,  or  any  woman,  and  in  your  old 
age  things  will  be  made  right  for  you." 

At  the  moment  when  Peter  Engels  and  his 
wife  thus  conversed  on  board  the  Morea,  their 
"  refined  and  distinguished  "  son-in-law  was  sit 
ting  in  torn  clothes  upon  a  dusty  rock  at  the  gate 
of  the  Ballinasloe  rectory.  The  sun  beat  hot 
on  his  head ;  and  it  is  when  sleepless  and  exhaust 
ed  that  the  sun  exerts  a  fatal  power.  It  is  said 
that  no  man  can  have  sunstroke  who  has  slept 
well  the  night  before.  Colonel  Wolcott  had  not 
slept  for  two  nights.  He  had  gone  through  every 
kind  of  exertion,  anxiety,  and  exposure,  barely 
tasting  food  or  drink,  so  anxious  had  he  been  to 
find  poor  Mel  and  to  get  back  to  Adela.  He  was 
now  refused  communication  with  his  wife,  — 
thrust  out,  discredited,  proclaimed  a  cheat  and 
an  impostor ;  nor  in  his  present  state  could  he 
make  head  against  this  opposition. 

He  sat  there,  hardly  conscious.  His  nervous 
system  was  so  highly  strung  that  the  strings 
nearly  snapped  ;  and  he  would  have  been  beyond 
all  human  help  in  half  an  hour. 

He  was  roused  by  men  talking  to  him  and 
shaking  him.  Several  persons  stood  around  him. 
One  was  a  rural  policeman,  one  Mr.  Darrell, 
the  others  Father  Joe  the  priest,  Paddy  Byrne, 


2/0  SALVAGE. 

Mr.  Wood,  the  only  remaining  officer  on  the 
Crimea,  just  returned  from  Killarney,  a  man, 
evidently  a  gentleman,  though  in  a  rough  shoot 
ing-dress,  who  appeared  to  be  looked  up  to  by 
all  the  rest  of  the  party,  and  the  doctor. 

The  gentleman  was  addressing  him  in  a  tone 
of  encouragement,  but  in  words  which  did  more 
than  any  other  address  could  have  done  to  sting 
and  rouse  him. 

"  Come,  my  man,  exert  yourself!  Get  up,  and 
go  down  to  the  priest's  house.  Father  Joe  will 
be  very  kind  to  you." 

There  was  a  gleam  in  Colonel  Wolcott's  eyes, 
at  this  speech,  not  lost  on  the  officer  of  the 
Crimea.  Lucifer,  having  paid  first-class  fare, 
would  be  entitled  to  consideration  not  accorded 
to  Gabriel  if  he  berthed  in  the  second  cabin. 
Defaulter  and  thief  though  he  might  be,  no  officer 
in  the  Crimea,  but  its  captain,  might  lose  sight  of 
this  distinction.  With  an  emphasis  intended  to 
make  others  sensible  of  their  mistake,  Mr.  Wood 
addressed  his  first-class  passenger. 

"  Yes,  sir,  his  lordship  is  quite  right.  Lord 
Lindore  knows  that  it  is  always  best  to  be  a  little 
rough  in  cases  of  this  kind.  You  must  exert 
yourself.  You  must  not  sit  here  in  the  dust  and 
sun.  The  owners  are  responsible  for  your  com 
fort  and  accommodation.  Here  is  the  doctor. 
He  wants  to  feel  your  pulse.  And  this  gentle- 


IN  SICKNESS.  271 


man  is  Lord  Lindore,  who  has  a  castle  in  the 
neighborhood.  Besides,  sir,  our  voices  are  dis 
turbing  the  lady,"  he  added,  as  a  snatch  of  song 
from  Aclela's  room  floated  from  the  open  window. 

"Is  the  doctor  here,  did  you  say  ?"  said  Colonel 
Wolcott. 

"  Yes ;  here  I  am."  Mr.  Neal  was  a  very 
young  practitioner. 

"Then,  doctor,  I  am  Colonel  Wolcott.  Tell 
me  how  my  wife  is.  Will  she  recover  ? " 

"  The  lady  who  is  singing  ?  If  she  follows  my 
directions,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  and  you  too. 
Only  she  must  be  kept  quite  still,  and  your  voice 
disturbs  her.  A  shipwreck  puts  a  great  strain 
on  a  lady's  constitution.  In  a  day  or  two  you 
will  both  be  all  right  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  Only 
let  Father  Joe  take  you  away  now." 

Colonel  Wolcott  rose  to  his  feet  but  staggered. 

"  Gentlemen,"  he  said,  "  take  notice.  I  am 
Lancelot  Wolcott,  once  colonel  in  the  Confeder 
ate  army,  and  author  of  a  lately  published  book 
on  Central  Asia.  The  lady  sick  in  that  house  is 
Mrs.  Wolcott,  my  wife.  Her  father  lives  in  New 
York,  —  Mr.  Peter  Engels." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment.  At  last  the 
doctor  said,  — 

"  I  have  no  doubt  about  what  you  say,  my  dear 
sir,  —  no  doubt  about  it  whatever,  but  for  the 
present,  unfeeling  as  it  may  appear  to  you,  we 


2/2  SALVAGE. 


must  tear  you  and  the  lady  apart  from  one  an 
other." 

Colonel  Wolcott  feebly  put  his  hand  in  his 
breast-pocket. 

"  Mr.  Wood,"  he  said  to  the  officer,  "  you  are 
a  brave  man  ;  you  commanded  us  at  the  pumps. 
I  address  myself  to  you.  You  may  remember 
when  that  tug  came  off  from  Queenstown.  I 
made  Captain  Moore  aware  of  my  identity ;  I 
showed  him  my  passport,  —  the  passport  with 
which  I  travelled  from  Constantinople.  But  I 
changed  my  coat  last  night.  You  will  find  it  in 
my  state-room." 

"  He  is  not  Colonel  Wolcott,"  said  Lord  Lin- 
dore,  in  a  low  tone  to  the  rector.  "  Colonel  Wol 
cott  is  a  very  different-looking  man,  —  quite  bald. 
We  have  a  likeness  of  him  at  the  castle  in  the 
'  Illustration.' " 

Colonel  Wolcott  caught  the  whisper.  It  filled 
him  with  a  sense  of  utter  hopelessness.  He  felt 
as  a  prisoner  or  a  tramp  must  feel  when  his  very 
identity  seems  taken  from  him. 

He  was  about  to  sink  back  on  the  stone,  and 
to  refuse  to  hear  further  from  the  men  about 
him,  when  Harrie  Tontine  ran  down  the  garden- 
walk  and  seized  hold  of  his  hand. 

"  Mr.  Dobson,"  she  said,  "  you  were  very  good 
to  me,  though  you  did  let  my  mamma  leave  me. 
I  '11  let  you  know  how  Mrs.  Wolcott  is  every  day, 


IN  SICKNESS.  273 


if  you  want  me  to.  You  saved  her  life  and  all 
our  lives,  and,"  added  the  precocious  child,  "  I 
am  very  sure  you  are  in  love  with  her.  I  think 
it  is  only  fair  you  should  know  how  she  is,  if  you 
want  to,  whoever  you  are." 

Harrie's  little  speech  produced  an  effect  on  the 
assembly. 

"  The  child  shall  let  you  know  every  day,"  said 
Mr.  Darrell. 

"Yes,"  replied  Harrie,  whispering  audibly. 
"He'll  let  me,  if  Mrs.  Darrell  lets  him.  But 
whether  she  will  or  not,  I  '11  keep  my  word,  cer 
tain  and  sure.  I  'd  like  to  see  Mrs.  Darrell  stop 
me.  I  '11  find  a  way  to  do  anything  I  want.  I  'm 
an  American  !  " 

"God  bless  you,  Harrie!"  said  Colonel  Wolcott, 
offering  to  kiss  her ;  but  Harrie  withdrew  from 
his  caress.  Wild  as  she  was,  and  ready  to  take 
liberties  with  others,  she  was  prompt  to  resent 
any  attempted  to  herself. 

"  I  '11  let  you  know  twice  a  day,"  she  repeated 
positively.  With  that  she  ran  into  the  house, 
while  the  colonel,  leaning  feebly  on  the  priest  and 
Paddy,  went  slowly  down  the  road  leading  to  the 
hamlet,  where,  beside  the  chapel,  stood  the  priest's 
small  house,  his  housekeeper  waiting,  with  a  kindly 
welcome,  at  the  door. 

18 


2/4  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FOR    BETTER. 

In  such  a  wife 

Fortune  had  lavished  all  her  store ; 
And  nothing  now  remained  in  life 

But  to  deserve  her  more  and  more. 

COVENTRY  PATMORE,  The  Espousal. 

'"THHE  Morea,  on  the  eighth  day  of  her  voyage, 

-*•       stood  into  the  Cove  of  Cork,  and  found 

herself  surrounded  by  the  green  hills  and  white 

cottages  of  Queenstown. 

A  tender  at  once  came  off  to  her  with  fresh 
vegetables  and  the  latest  intelligence.  Peter 
Engels  was  one  of  the  first  to  get  hold  of  a 
newspaper.  In  capital  letters  he  read  :  — 

FURTHER    PARTICULARS    OF    THE    WRECK    OF    THE 

CRIMEA  ! 

ADVICES    FROM    HALIFAX. 
PASSENGERS    TAKEN    OFF    BY    THE    ROBERT   E.  LEE 

TRANSFERRED    TO    THE    BOTHNIA. 

GALLANT     CONDUCT     OF    COLONEL    WOLCOTT,    THE 

DISTINGUISHED    TRAVELLER. 

ROMANTIC    INCIDENT. 
MEETS    ON    THE    CRIMEA    HIS    FIRST    LOVE, 

A    NEW    YORK    WIDOW, 
AND    IN    SAVING    HER    LIFE    LOSES    HIS    OWN. 


FOR  BETTER.  2?$ 


Poor  Mr.  Engels  stood  glaring  at  this  announce 
ment  without  reading  the  particulars,  when  his 
wife  came  up  to  him. 

"  Deary,"  she  said,  "  Adela  is  still  alive,  though 
very  ill.  The  captain  tells  me  that  a  man  has 
come  on  board  from  Ballinasloe,  the  place  where 
she  is,  to  get  ice  and  champagne  for  her.  He 
is  sent  by  a  gentleman  who  has  been  very  kind 
to  her.  I  think  it  must  be  that  Mr.  Dobson  who 
was  saved.  The  man  called  him  Wolcott,  but  he 
has  got  the  names  mixed  up  somehow.  Will 
you  come  and  question  him  ? " 

She  stood  with  her  little  travelling  bag,  ready 
to  go  ashore  in  the  tender. 

"  Not  Wolcott  —  no  !  He  's  dead.  We  may 
be  thankful  for  that,  Maggie.  See  how  he  died  ! 
Adela  is  rid  of  him  at  last."  And  he  gave  her 
the  paper. 

"  Poor  child !  Poor  child  !  So  he  left  her  to 
perish,  at  the  last,  that  he  might  rescue  Cora 
Noble  !  My  poor,  poor  Adela !  This  will  come 
hard  to  her.  I  know  she  was  very  fond  of  him, 
for  all  that 's  come  and  gone,"  said  the  mother. 
"  Well,  we  ought  to  be  thankful.  I  said  things 
would  come  right  at  last.  It's  all  over  now. 
When  people's  married  lives  have  got  into  such  a 
snarl  as  that,  it 's  easier  to  cut  than  disentangle. 
Till  death  do  us  part,  you  know.  So  Adela 
is*  a  widow.  I  told  you,  Peter,  all  would  happen 


2/6  SALVAGE. 

for  the  best.  Don't  you  remember,  dear,  I  said 
so  ? " 

"  I  know,  I  know,  you  always  make  out  things 
are  for  the  best.  I  wish  I  saw  them  so,"  he  said, 
and  left  her  for  a  few  moments.  He  soon  came 
back,  accompanied  by  the  captain  and  an  Irish 
man. 

"  See,"  said  he,  "  what  you  can  make  of  his 
story,  Mag.  He  blunders  so  in  his  names.  He 
confounds  Wolcott  and  Dobson." 

"Is  the  sick  lady  called  Mrs.  Wolcott  ?"  said 
the  old  lady. 

"  Shure,  my  lady,  an'  that  seems  the  lady's 
name.  But  we  just  calls  her  '  the  lady.' " 

"  And  you  have  been  sent  here  to  get  ice  for 
her.  Who  sent  you  ? " 

"  It  was  the  jantleman.  Him  as  saved  her  life, 
an'  was  coortin'  her  an'  goin'  on  about  her,  the 
child  says,  on  board  the  steamer.  Him  as  is 
married  to  her  already,  he  says  himself;  but  no 
one  seems  by  rights  to  know  how  that  is,  because 
the  sailors  says  his  name  is  Mr.  Dobson.  He 
give  me  money,  two  five-pound  notes,  '  and, 
Paddy,'  says  he,  '  here  's  a  bit  of  a  list  of  the 
things  you  are  to  ask  for.'  An'  Mr.  Wood, 
the  third  officer,  he  give  me  a  note  to  this  cap 
tain  here  to  get  ice  off  the  Morea.  I  was  to 
fetch  it  back  for  her,  an'  he 's  waitin'  for  the 
things  now.  He  give  me  the  list  of  'em  all,  — 


FOR  BETTER.  277 


lemons,  sugar,  oranges,  an'  tarn  —  tarn —  I  don't 
know  the  name  o'  them  things.  But  there  was 
a  basket  o'  wine  cost  more  than  all  the  rest 
of  them.  He  wrote  its  name  down.  See,  sir, 
here—" 

"  Where  does  the  gentleman  come  from  ?  " 
"  Shure,  it 's  from  off  the  ship  that  is  breakin' 
up  upon  the  reef,  an'  sorrow  much  comfort  the 
boys  is  gettin'  out  of  her,  at  all,  at  all.  He  saved 
the  lady  an'  the  governess  an'  himself  an'  the 
man  that  was  drowned  on  the  reef  an'  the  child 
an'  the  dog  an'  all  of  them.  Day  before  yes 
terday  he  got  a  rale  physician  for  her,  from  Kil- 
larney.  But,  bless  you !  he  said  our  Mr.  Neal 
done  just  as  good.  His  rivirince's  wife,  though, 
Mrs.  Darrell,  won't  let  him  come  anigh  her.  She 
says  she  must  see  things  all  respectable  about 
her  house,  and  everything  regular." 
"  How  does  this  gentleman  look  ?  " 
"  He  is  rale  tall,  fine-looking,  with  the  biggest 
black  beard  ever  your  ladyship  see  on  him,  an'  a 
pair  of  eyes  that  pierces  through  the  very  soul 
of  you.  He  sings  beautiful.  An'  ivery  night 
he's  outside  of  her  window,  an'  she  a  singing 
Prodestan  hymns.  Mrs.  Darrell  wants  him  to 
be  removed  by  the  police  ;  but  he  's  free  with  his 
purse,  an'  the  police  does  n't  like  exactly  to  be 
after  him." 

"That  can't  be  Wolcott.     I  don't  believe  he 


278  SALVAGE. 


would  know  a  Protestant  hymn  if  he  heard  one," 
exclaimed  his  father-in-law. 

"  Well,  he  's  a  Prodestan,  anyhow,  himself,  an' 
was  up  at  the  church  Sunday  morning.  Father 
Joe  himself  tould  me  so.  Says  he,  '  That 's  the 
only  word  I  have  to  say  agin  Colonel  Wolcott.' 
He  calls  him  Wolcott,  but  the  rector  an'  his  wife 
calls  him  chate  an'  imposture.  He  's  been  send 
ing  to  Valencia  an'  Killarney,  right  an'  left,  tele 
graphing  since  Sunday.  He 's  been  very  ill 
himself,  but  the  last  two  days  he 's  got  a  dog-cart 
an'  been  all  over  the  counthry." 

"Can  it  be  Wolcott,  Maggie  ?" 

"Ah,  but  he  's  the  jantleman,  I  '11  go  bail  for 
him.  I  helped  him  go  look  for  his  servant  on  the 
reef.  He  would  n't  leave  looking  for  him  to  the 
sailors,  fearing  they  'd  give  up  before  he  was 
dead,  —  an'  so  they  would,  —  an'  so  the  poor 
fellow  that  laid  there  dead  under  the  rocks  warnt 
drownded." 

"  Are  you  going  back  at  once  to  the  place 
where  the  wreck  lies  ?  "  asked  the  captain  of  the 
Morea. 

"As  fast  as  the  engine  will  be  dhrivin'  me, 
your  honor.  It  's  at  Killarney  his  honor  will 
be  expectin'  me  with  his  things,"  was  the 
answer. 

"  Then,  Mr.  Engels,  you  had  better  go  along 
with  him.  He  will  put  you  in  the  way  of  getting 


FOR  BETTER.  2/9 


to  the  coast.  The  railroad  terminates  at  Kil- 
larney." 

"  Shure,  his  honor  will  be  at  Killarney  waitin' 
for  me  an'  the  lemons  and  the  ice,  —  all  the 
things  I  was  to  fetch,"  said  the  Irishman. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  old  couple  found  them 
selves  on  board  the  Queenstown  tender ;  and  in 
half  an  hour,  with  ice,  champagne,  lemons,  tam 
arinds,  etc.,  they  were  rushing  across  Ireland, 
no  travellers  ever  paying  less  attention  than  they 
did  to  the  scenery  and  characteristics  of  the 
Emerald  Isle. 

At  Killarney  there  was  the  usual  Irish  rush  of 
carmen,  guides,  gossoons,  beggars,  and  hotel  run 
ners.  It  was  the  harvest  season  of  the  place. 
No  child  so  small,  no  man  so  poor,  but  crowded 
to  glean  after  the  chief  reapers. 

Paddy  shoved  the  crowd  off  from  the  strangers, 
crying  aloud  to  some  one  in  torn  trousers  and  a 
long  beard,  "  Shure,  I  Ve  brought  your  honor  all 
you  named  upon  the  list,  an'  an  owld  lady  an' 
owld  jantleman,  all  the  way  from  Ameriky,  to 
see  the  lady." 

"  Mr.  Engels !  Mrs.  Engels  !  How  unexpect 
ed,"  said  the  figure,  advancing  towards  them, 
"  and  how  glad  I  am  to  see  you  ! " 

"  Colonel  Wolcott !  Bless  me  !  Then  you 
were  not  drowned.  But  what  —  how  is  Adela  ? " 

"  Better.     She  has  recovered  her  senses,  but  I 


280  SALVAGE. 


am  not  allowed  to  see  her.  Things  may  change 
now  that  you  have  come.  Mrs.  Engels,  take 
pity  on  us  both  and  let  me  see  her !  But  first 
tell  me  about  that  Indiana  business.  Is  she  my 
wife  still  ?  Deane  has  not  answered  a  telegram 
I  sent  him  yesterday  morning." 

"  I  left  word  not  to  go  on  in  the  case  until  we 
heard  from  you  again,"  said  Mr.  Engels.  "  But 
about  seeing  her,  we  can  say  nothing  till  we  know 
what  she  wishes.  She  herself  must  decide  for  or 
against  that.  How  can  we  get  on  as  quick  as 
possible  ? " 

"  I  have  a  dog-cart  here  and  a  pair  of  fast 
ponies.  I  will  put  you  there  in  about  two  hours. 
Paddy,  don't  put  those  things  into  the  dog-cart ; 
hire  a  car.  The  sight  of  her  father  and  mother 
will  do  Mrs.  Wolcott  more  good  than  ice  or 
champagne." 

In  a  few  minutes  they  were  en  route.  Colonel 
Wolcott,  in  high  spirits,  drove  fast  along  roads 
rough  as  the  well-known  limestone  roads  in  the 
Valley  of  Virginia ;  but  though  he  drove  fast,  he 
contrived  to  talk  fast  too,  and  gave  his  listeners 
full  particulars  of  the  wreck  of  the  Crimea. 

"How  about  the  Robert  E.  Lee?"  said  Mr. 
Engels.  "  I  saw  a  report  from  Halifax  that  you 
had  lost  your  life  saving  a  New  York  widow." 

"When  Adela  is  well  enough  you  must  ask 
her  about  that,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott,  with  a 


FOR  BETTER.  28 1 


laugh  ;  and  his  laugh  seemed  to  remove  the  need 
of  further  explanation. 

Before  long  they  were  all  laughing.  There  may 
be  laughing-gas  in  the  Irish  atmosphere;  but  put 
three  people  together  who  have  honest  hearts 
and  kindly  dispositions,  exhilarate  them  with  a 
new  hope  after  a  long  anxiety,  shake  them  up  in 
a  rough  drive  of  ten  miles  over  a  bad  road  in  a 
strange  country,  and  see  if  they  will  not,  without 
formal  explanation,  come  to  a  good  understand 
ing  with  each  other.  Indeed,  explanations  are 
apt  at  any  time  to  be  the  new  cloth  in  the  old 
fabric  of  a  quarrel. 

For  the  first  time  Colonel  Wolcott  did  not  see 
in  Mr.  Engels  a  rich  vulgarian.  For  the  first 
time  he  appreciated  the  motherly  heart  of  his  un 
polished  mother-in-law.  For  the  first  time,  too, 
the  old  people  saw  in  him  neither  "  the  good 
match "  they  had  purchased  for  their  daughter, 
nor  the  hot-blooded  Southerner  who  had  broken 
away  from  them,  despising  their  breeding  and  re 
nouncing  their  connection. 

When  the  dog-cart  drew  up  at  the  garden-gate 
of  the  rectory,  Mrs.  Darrell  hastened  from  her 
chamber,  astonished  to  see  her  adversary  spring 
from  the  box-seat,  and  hand  out  an  old  lady. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Engels,  Mrs.  Wolcott's  mother, 
ma'am,"  said  that  person.  "  You  have  been  very 
good  to  her,  I  hear,  and  I  thank  you  with  all  my 


282  SALVAGE. 

heart.  Will  you  show  me  the  way  to  my 
daughter  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,  madam.  Arriving  in  company 
with  a  person  I  have  reason  to  know  is  a  cheat 
and  an  impostor  —  " 

"  Not  at  all,  madam.  He  is  my  daughter's 
husband.  Please  stand  aside  and  let  me  find  her 
room." 

This  coolness  in  the  hall  of  her  own  house  dis 
comfited  Mrs.  Darrell.  Like  every  other  bully, 
she  was  a  coward. 

At  this  moment  Harrie  Tontine  rushed  down 
stairs  with  a  shout :  — 

"  Good  gracious  !    If  here  is  n't  Mrs.  Engels  !  " 

And  a  few  moments  after,  when  Mrs.  Darrell 
entered  Mrs.  Wolcott's  room,  all  her  suspicions 
vanished  at  the  sight  before  her. 

The  patient  was  sitting  up  in  bed  clasped  to 
her  Another's  heart,  with  sobs  of  "  O  mother, 
mother,  this  is  too  much  happiness  !  Now  you 
will  let  me  see  Lancelot.  I  keep  hearing  his 
voice  downstairs,  but  they  won't  let  him  come  up. 
Where  is  papa  ?  How  could  you  get  here  so 
soon  ? " 

"  Colonel  Wolcott,"  called  out  Mrs.  Engels, 
going  at  once  to  the  head  of  the  stairs,  "  come  up 
at  once,  please  !  Your  wife  wants  you." 

At  the  same  moment  she  turned  warningly  to 
Adela,  who,  with  flushed  cheeks,  exclaimed, "  I  '11 


FOR  BETTER.  283 


not  excite  myself.  I  will  be  very  calm.  This 
listening  and  hoping  and  worrying  has  been 
worse  for  me  than  seeing  him  could  be.  O  Lance 
lot,  Lancelot,  is  it  really  you  ?  " 

A  few  hours  later,  in  consequence  of  Colonel 
Wolcott's  telegrams,  all  manner  of  identifications 
began  to  pour  in.  The  first  person  who  arrived 
to  help  him  out  of  his  scrape  was  the  American 
Secretary  of  Legation  from  London.  There  was 
no  suitable  accommodation  for  him  in  the  village, 
so  he  threw  himself  upon  the  hospitality  of  Lord 
Lindore,  with  whom  he  had  some  acquaintance, 
and  who,  in  vexed  repentance  for  his  former 
blunder,  now  lavished  every  possible  attention 
on  Adela  and  the  pseudo  "  Mr.  Dobson." 

Next  day  came  Mr.  Smith,  escorting  little 
Lance,  who,  his  father  and  grandmother  being 
absorbed  in  Adela,  was  handed  over  to  his 
grandfather's  care ;  and  the  pair,  being  warmly 
pressed,  also  took  up  their  quarters  at  Castle 
Lindore. 

Emma  Wylie,  though  superseded  in  her  func 
tions  as  a  nurse,  was  not  trusted  to  take  care  of 
Lance,  because  his  mother  and  grandmother 
alike  dreaded  any  association  between  him  and 
the  daughter  of  Cora  Tontine. 

Harrie  was  now  possessed  with  a  mania  for  the 
reef.  To  go  off  to  the  wreck  was  her  supreme 
delight.  She  had  recovered  -her  spirits,  and 


284  SALVAGE. 


made  a  slave  of  the  third  officer.  Old  Mrs.  En- 
gels  encouraged  their  intimacy,  to  the  disgust  of 
Mrs.  Darrell,  who  was  lost  in  astonishment  at 
this  specimen  of  American  childhood. 

Harrie  had  keen  perceptions.  The  tact  which 
is  usually  employed  to  please  was  by  her  used 
to  repel,  —  like  the  reverse  end  of  a  magnet.  She 
knew  to  a  nicety  what  would  shock,  estrange, 
worry,  and  confound  the  rector's  lady. 

Where  Harrie  went,  even  upon  the  reef,  Mrs. 
Engels  insisted  that  Miss  Wylie  should  accom 
pany  her;  and  the  old  lady  smiled  complacently 
when,  one  evening,  Colonel  Wolcott  announced 
that  he  thought  he  had  made  a  discovery.  He 
fancied  that  the  third  officer  was  paying  atten 
tions  to  Miss  Wylie. 

"  Ha  !  ha  !  "  said  his  mother-in-law.  "Did  you 
suppose  he  would  let  Harrie  cut  up  in  that  way 
and  torment  him  if  it  were  not  for  that  —  you 
know  ? " 

"  My  good  mother,"  said  Colonel  Wolcott,  "  I 
thought  you  had  forsworn  match-making." 

"  Match-making,  yes.  Bringing  two  people 
together  who  would  suit  each  other,  no.  Mr. 
Wood  and  Miss  Wylie  can,  of  course,  do  as  they 
like  ;  and  I  don't  know  as  she  will  have  him  when 
he  asks  her.  But,  at  any  rate,  she  never  had  an 
offer  in  her  life  before,  and  she  will  have  one 
now.  That  will  be  good  for  her,  if  nothing  more 


FOR  BETTER.  285 


comes  of  it ;  it  will  be  something  to  look  back 
upon  if  she  elects  to  be  an  old  maid.  Every 
woman  has  a  right  to  one  offer,  at  least.  A  girl 
who  misses  her  fair  share  of  experience  with  men, 
is  always  restless  and  unhappy." 

"  And  the  third  officer  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  man  and  a  sailor.  Mr.  Engels  will 
look  after  him,  and  get  him  some  good  berth 
which  will  make  it  up  to  him  if  he  fails ;  but 
he  wont  fail,  I  'm  pretty  sure." 


286  •  SALVAGE. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

FOR    RICHER. 

There  may  be  men,  perhaps,  whose  vocation  it  is  to  be  idle, 

Idle,  sumptuous  even,  luxurious  if  it  must  be. 

Only  let  each  man  seek  to  be  that  for  which  nature  designed  him, 

Do  his  duty  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  God,  not  man,  shall  call  him. 

Let  us  to  Providence  trust,  and  abide  and  work  in  our  stations. 

A.  H.  CLOUGH,  The  Bothie  of  Toper-na-F  uosich. 

A  S  days  went  on,  and  Adela  grew  stronger, 
questions  of  the  future  had  to  be  decided. 
When  her  husband  first  saw  her  dressed  he  ex 
claimed  against  her  black  clothes. 

"  Who  are  you  wearing  this  ill-timed  black  for, 
Adela  ? " 

"  For  my  good  aunt,  Mrs.  Carr,  who  left  me, 
when  she  died,  $200,000." 

The  next  day  he  said  to  her,  "  Adela,  you  have 
$200,000.  Let  us  live  upon  your  income  till  I 
get  something  to  do." 

"  What's  that  you  say  ?"  said  Peter  Engels. 

"  My  dear  sir,  that  I  am  a  poor  man  with  a 
rich  wife.  I  think  Adela,  Lancey,  and  I  may 
well  live  for  the  present  on  the  income  of 
$200,000." 


FOR   RICHER.  287 


"  Listen  to  me,  son  Lancelot,  and,  if  you  can, 
divest  yourself  of  Southern  sensitiveness  and 
come  down  to  Northern  sense.  It  has  pleased 
the  Lord  to  make  you  rich  by  marriage.  In  a 
pecuniary  sense,  you  have  married  Adela  for 
better,  not  for  worse.  Have  you  any  right  to 
shirk  the  obligations  of  your  marriage  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  I  acknowledge  that  by  this 
time.  But  —  " 

"  I  have  been  wanting  to  have  a  little  talk  with 
you  upon  this  subject.  My  Maggie  and  I  are 
going  home  in  the  next  steamer." 

"  No,  no  !  "  cried  Adela  ;  and  her  protest  was 
echoed  by  an  energetic  "  No  ! "  from  her  hus 
band. 

"Yes,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  smiling,  "and 
you  are  to  go  off  alone  and  have  your  honey 
moon.  Make  it  last  a  year,  if  you  like.  It  may 
be  your  life's  best  holiday.  Meantime  I  shall  "be 
looking  out  in  New,  York  for  a  house  for  you. 
You  must  have  your  own  establishment,  and  be 
master  in  your  own  house,  Colonel.  We  made  a 
mistake  about  that  last  time." 

"  Don't  say  that,"  said  Lancelot,  "  when  I  have 
just  learned  to  value  you  and  Mrs.  Engels." 

"  For  all  that,  we  will  have  two  households," 
said  Mr.  Engels.  "  Now  as  to  money.  It  is 
much  easier  to  make  it  than  to  keep  it,  to  accu 
mulate  it  than  to  spend  it.  One  reason  that  so 


288  SALVAGE. 


few  fortunes  in  America  grow  very  great,  while 
so  many  make  money,  is  that  twenty  men  lose 
what  they  make  to  one  who  accumulates  it.  Men 
slave  and  toil,  and  rake  and  scrape,  and  then 
they  make  ignorant  investments,  and  off  it  goes. 
It  has  been  my  pleasure  to  make  money  and  my 
pride  to  keep  it.  Now  I  want  you  and  Adela  and 
Lance  to  do  me  credit  by  your  way  of  spending 
it.  The  luck  of  having  their  means  well  spent 
happens  to  few  men  like  me.  When  I  first  came 
under  religious  convictions  —  that  time  my  little 
boys  died  —  it  was  a  matter  of  conscientious  con 
sideration  with  me  whether  I  ought  not  to  educate 
myself  and  go  into  the  ministry.  I  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  I  had  better  not.  '  Peter  Engels,' 
I  said,  'you  are  too  old  to  make  much  of  a 
preacher,  but  you  can  make  money.  Stay  where 
the  Lord  has  found  you,  and  always  keep  a  prom 
ising  young  man  educating  at  your  expense  as 
a  clergyman  or  a  missionary.'  I  always  have. 
And  one  of  them  rushed  at  me  and  roared 
about  my  consenting  to  this  divorce  like  a  bull  of 
Bashan." 

"  Don't  talk  about  that,  please,  papa,"  said 
Adela.  "  It  is  all  over." 

"  Well,  he  allowed   I  was  ignorant,"  said  her 

father,  "  and  he  said  the  church  ought  to  have 

educated  me  better.     Pretty  good,  that,  was  n't 

-it,  Colonel?    when    I'd   paid   for   all   he  knew. 


FOR  RICHER.  289 


However,  as  I  was  saying,  our  country  has  great 
need  of  wealth,  and  she  wants  a  great  deal  that 
wealth  can  buy  for  her  improvement,  or  so  they  say. 
She  wants  rich  men  and  women  who  know  how 
to  spend.  I  don't.  But  you  may  learn.  One  of  the 
misfortunes  of  rich  men  in  America  is  .that  they 
are  so  busy  in  getting  wealth  that  it  leaves  them 
no  time  to  get  acquainted  with  their  sons  and 
daughters.  As  a  rule,  our  rich  men  have  turned 
out  a  poor  lot  of  sons.  Now,  my  Adela  would  do 
credit  to  a  kingdom,  —  and  I  think  you  are  a 
right  good  fellow.  I  want  you  both  to  do  what 
a  man  brought  up  as  I  have  been  cannot  do  for 
himself;  that  is,  judiciously  and  advantageously 
to  spend  my  money.  The  country  wants  art. 
Study  art,  and  patronize  it  for  me.  The  country, 
they  say,  has  not  enough  refined  society.  Open 
your  doors,  and  show  society  how  the  thing  ought 
to  be  done.  As  to  direct  charity,  it  requires  an 
education  made  up  of  blunders  and  disappoint 
ments  to  teach  us  all  who  to  help  and  who 
to  refuse.  One  has  to  spend  a  fortune  making 
mischief  only  to  find  out  that  money  is  capable 
of  doing  harm.  Charity  with  you  and  Adela 
won't  consist,  I  hope,  merely  in  giving  away 
money,  —  I  can  supply  you  with  that ;  — '•  you 
must  give  the  subject  your  attention  and  your 
time.  You  have  no  easy  task  before  you.  It  is 
a  profession  to  be  rich.  Go  off  and  enjoy  your- 
19 


2QO  SALVAGE. 


selves,  and  then  come  back  and  take  up  your 
work  in  your  own  country  as  the  husband  of  a 
very  rich  wife,  —  the  heir,  most  probably,  in  a 
few  years  of  a  very  rich  man." 

Mr.  Engels's  voice  quavered  a  little  as  he  ut 
tered  the  last  words.  Colonel  Wolcott  heard 
him  in  silence,  but  he  acquiesced.  He  had  lived 
to  discover  for  himself  that  to  be  rich  is  a  pro 
fession,  —  a  profession  without  primers  or  profes 
sorships,  without  landmarks  or  traditions ;  in 
which  the  blind  lead  the  blind,  and  in  which  a 
man  is  educated  only  by  his  own  mistakes. 

As  his  esteem  for  his  father-in-law  increased, 
he  became  sensible  that  other  men  did  him.  a 
justice  which  he  himself  had  withheld.  A  re 
flected  light  often  shows  points  which  had  escaped 
our  observation. 

Mr.  Engels  was  something  of  an  agriculturist 
and  a  good  judge  of  horses.  He  made  a  favorable 
impression  on  the  gentlemen  of  Ballinasloe  and 
its  neighborhood.  These  were  not  disposed  to 
be  hypercritical  on  small  points  of  refinement, 
as  had  once  been  the  case  with  his  son-in-law. 

Colonel  Wolcott  excused  himself  from  the 
hospitalities  offered  him.  He  was  too  truly  a 
gentleman  to  feel  resentment  at  his  first  recep 
tion  in  the  neighborhood,  but  his  whole  heart 
was  with  his  wife,  his  sole  interest  in  her  re 
covery. 


FOR  RICHER.  291 


Two  or  three  days  later  came  a  letter  from  Mr. 
Deane,  dated  June  6,  which  had  been  lying  a 
fortnight  in  the  hands  of  the  London  publisher. 

"  NEW  YORK,  June  6,  1870. 

"  MY  DEAR  COLONEL,  —  I  have  employed  Mr. 
Ovid  O'Peccan  as  your  counsel  in  Indiana ;  but 
am  sorry  to  say  suit  will  not  be  brought  until 
court  meets  in  September.  I  also  regret  to  tell 
you  that  we  shall  not  have  the  co-operation  of 
Mrs.  Wolcott  and  her  family.  Mr.  Engels  posi 
tively  declines  to  assist  us  or  to  enter  into  any 
compromise.  Mrs.  Wolcott  take.s  the  position 
that  you  went  South  to  attend  to  your  affairs,  and 
does  not  consider  herself  deserted  by  you.  It 
remains,  therefore,  to  get  up  a  case  against  her. 
We  should  be  glad  to  receive  fuller  information 
as  to  your  marriage  difficulties,  and  further  in 
structions.  Anything  which  may  tell  against  the 
defendant  will  be  valuable. 

"  Your  obedient  servant, 

"  RICHARD  DEANE." 

Colonel  Wolcott,  who  was  now  a  resident  at 
the  rectory,  went  into  the  library  to  answer  this 
letter. 

"  BALLINASLOE  RECTORY,  June  26,  1870. 

"Mv  DEAR  SIR,  —  Your  letter  of  June  6  did 
not  reach  me  until  this  morning.  On  the  very 


2Q2  SALVAGE. 


day  it  is  dated,  things  were  settling  themselves 
another  way.  All  is  well  that  ends  well.  I 
am  with  Mrs.  Wolcott  at  Ballinasloe,  a  small 
village  on  the  western  coast  of  Ireland,  where 
the  poor  Crimea's  skeleton  lies  on  a  reef  opposite 
the  windows  of  the  house  where  we  are  staying. 
Mrs.  Wolcott  is  slowly  recovering  from  the  ex 
posure  and  excitement  of  the  shipwreck.  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Engels  are  here,  and  our  little  boy. 
All  this  being  so,  there  is  no  need  to  send  you 
the  information  you  requested.  Please  pay  Mr. 
O'Peccan,  and  let  me  never  again  hear  the  word 
divorce,  —  or  see  the  bills.  You  can  draw  for 
the  full  amount  on  my  publishers,  A.  B.  &  Co., 
who  will  have  orders  to  honor  your  check  as  soon 
as  it  comes  to  hand. 

"  Yours  truly, 

"LANCELOT  WOLCOTT." 

Adela  entered  while  still  he  sat,  his  pen  sus 
pended  over  the  last  word. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked,  noticing  his  sombre 
expression. 

"Only  this  letter,"  he  replied,  pushing  it 
toward  her.  "What  a  fool  I  have  been,  dear 
love,  what  a  fool !  " 

"  Never  say  so  again,"  she  replied,  looking  deep 
into  his  eyes  with  that  ineffable  gaze  of  steadfast 
affection  which  makes  a  wife's  face  seem  half 


FOR  RICHER. 


293 


divine  to  her  husband.  "  Never  think  so  again, 
dear  Lancelot.  Both  of  us  did  wrong,  both  are 
forgiven,  and  for  the  future  we  are  going  to  be 
such  happy  people,  and  so  wise,  that  the  world 
will  be  all  the  better  because  we  live  in  it  and 
because  we  love  one  another." 


Messrs.   Roberts   Brothers    Publications. 
%  $o  $amt  (Sttonb)  Series. 

THE  COLONEL'S  OPERA  CLOAK. 


"A  jollier,  brighter,  breezier,  more  entertaining  book  than  'The  Colonel's 
Opera  Cloak '  has  not  been  published  for  many  a  day.  We  defy  the  coldest- 
blooded  reader  to  lay  it  down  before  it  is  finished,  or  to  read  it  through  without 
feeling  his  time  well  spent.  There  is  plenty  of  satire  in  its  pages,  but  it  is  good- 
natured  satire.  The  characters  are  sharply  drawn  —  some  of  them  from  nature, 
we  fancy  —  and  there  is  spice  enough  in  the  way  of  incident  to  satisfy  the  most 
exacting  palate.  Of  course,  everybody  will  read  it,  and,  in  that  presumption,  we 
promise  everybody  two  hours  of  thorough  enjoyment."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"The  No  Name  Series  abounds  in  contrasts,  and  that  between  '  Signor  Mo- 
naldini's  Niece'  and  the  present  story  is  among  the  most  decided  it  has  offered. 
This  we  do  not  mention  by  way  of  disparagement.  On  the  contrary,  we  can  see 
a  distinctive  merit  in  a  series  which  includes  so  much  variety  of  aim  and  interest 
as  this  does,  without  any  regard  for  the  conventional  demand  that  a  succession  of 
stories  in  the  same  binding  should  all  be  of  one  school  and  in  something  the  same 
tone.  We  can  see  why  an  admirer  of  the  last  novel  may  at  first  be  taken  aback 
by  the  light  tone  of  this,  and  in  so  far  disappointed  ;  but  we  shall  expend  no 
sympathy  on  that  person.  'The  Colonel's  Opera  Cloak'  is  a  bright  and 
thoroughly  alluring  little  book,  with  which  it  would  be  foolish  to  find  fault  on  any 
score.  And,  more  than  that,  it  is  well  written  and  brimming  over  with  wit. 
The  notion  of  a  story  in  which  there  is  avowedly  no  hero  or  heroine  excepting  an 
old  opera  cloak,  is  clever,  and,  so  far  as  we  know,  quite  new.  .  .  .  We  can 
assure  every  one  who  wishes  the  double  pleasure  of  laughter  and  literary  enjoy 
ment,  that  this  is  one  of  the  books  to  carry  to  the  country."  —  Boston  Courier. 

"The  author's  touch  is  always  that  of  the  artist ;  it  always  has  the  magic  power 
of  portraying  individual  men  and  women,  never  giving  us  shadowy  outlines,  how 
ever  few  or  hurried  the  strokes  of  the  pencil  may  be,  and  saying  this  we  say  that 
the  author  of 'The  Colonel's  Opera  Cloak'  has  in  large  measure  the  best  and 
most  necessary  qualification  for  doing  really  fine  work  in  fiction.  If  he  is  still 
young,  as  certain  things  in  his  story  indicate  that  he  is,  his  future  efforts  may  well 
be  looked  for  hopefully."  — N.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

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Messrs.    Roberts,   Brothers'   Publications. 

THE  NO  NAME  (SECOND)  SEEIES. 
SlGNOR  MONALDINI'S  NIECE. 

Extracts  from  some  Opinions  by  well-known  Authors. 

"  We  have  read  '  Signer  Monaldini's  Niece '  with  intensest 
interest  and  delight.  The  style  is  finished  and  elegant,  the  at 
mosphere  of  the  book  is  enchanting.  We  seem  to  have  lived  in 
Italy  while  w'e  were  reading  it.  The  author  has  delineated  with  a 
hand  as  steady  as  it  is  powerful  and  skilful  some  phases  of  human 
life  and  experience  that  authors  rarely  dare  attempt,  and  with 
marvellous  success.  We  think  this  volume  by  far  the  finest  of 
the  No  Name  Series." 

"  It  is  a  delicious  story.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  to  Italy  and 
knew  all  the  people.  .  .  .  Miss  Conroy  is  a  strong  character,  and. 
her  tragedy  is  a  fine  background  for  the  brightness  of  the  other 
and  higher  natures.  It  is  all  so  dramatic  and  full  of  color  it  goes 
on  like  a  lovely  play  and  leaves  one  out  of  breath  when  the  cur 
tain  falls." 

"  I  liave  re-read  it  with  great  interest,  and  think  as  highly  of  it 
as  ever.  .  .  .  The  characterization  in  it  is  capital,  and  the  talk 
wonderfully  well  done  from  first  to  last." 

"  The  new  No  Name  is  enchanting.  It  transcends  the  ordinary 
novel  just  as  much  as  a  true  poem  by  a  true  poet  transcends  the 
thousand  and  one  imitations.  ...  It  is  the  episode,  however,  of 
Miss  Conroy  and  Mrs.  Brandon  that  is  really  of  most  importance 
in  this  book.  ...  I  hope  every  woman  who  reads  this  will  be 
tempted  to  read  the  book,  and  that  she  will  in  her  turn  bring  it  to 
the  reading  of  other  women,  especially  if  she  can  find  any  Mrs. 
Brandon  in  her  circle." 

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THE  "NO   NAME   SERIES." 


KISMET.    A  Nile  Novel. 

Opinions,  generous  tributes  to  genius,  by  well-known  authors 
whose  name's  are  withheld. 

"Well,  I  have  read  'Kismet,'  and  it  is  certainly  rery  remarkable.  The 
story  is  interesting,  —  any  well-told  love  story  is,  you  know,  —  but  the  book  itself  is 
a  great  deal  more  so.  Descriptively  and  sentimentally,  —  I  use  the  word  with 
entire  respect,  —  it  is,  in  spots,  fairly  exquisite.  It  seems  to  me  all  glowing  and 
overflowing  with  what  the  French  call  beauti  du  diable.  .  .  .  The  conversa 
tions  are  very  clever,  and  the  wit  is  often  astonishingly  like  the  wit  of  an  accom 
plished  man  of  the  world.  One  thing  which  seems  to  me  to  show  promise  — 
great  promise,  if  you  will  —  for  the  future  is  that  the  author  can  not  only  repro 
duce  the  conversation  of  one  brilliant  man,  but  can  make  two  men  talk  together  as 
if  they  •were  men,  —  not  women  in  manly  clothes." 

"  It  is  a  charming  book.  I  have  read  it  twice,  and  looked  it  over  again,  and 
I  wish  I  had  it  all  new  to  sit  up  with  to-night  It  is  so  fresh  and  sweet  and  inno 
cent  and  joyous,  the  dialogue  is  so  natural  and  bright,  the  characters  so  keenly 
edged,  and  the  descriptions  so  poetic.  I  don't  know  when  I  have  enjoyed 
any  thing  more,  — never  since  I  went  sailing  up  the  Nile  with  Harriet  Martineau. 
...  You  must  give  the  author  love  and  greeting  from  one  of  the  fraternity. 
The  hand  that  gives  ns  this  pleasure  will  give  us  plenty  more  of  an  improving 
quality  every  year,  I  think.' ' 

"  '  Kismet'  is  indeed  a  delightful  story,  the  best  of  the  series  undoubtedly." 

"  If  '  Kismet '  is  the  first  work  of  a  young  lady,  as  reported,  it  shows  a  great 
gift  of  language,  and  powers  of  description  and  of  insight  into  character  and  life 
quite  uncommon.  ...  Of  the  whole  series  so  far,  I  think  '  Mercy  Philbrick'i 
Choice'  is  the  best,  because  it  has,  beside  literary  merit,  some  moral  tone  and 
vigor.  Still  there  are  capabilities  in  the  writer  of  '  Kismet '  even  higher  than  in 
that  of  the  writer  of  '  Mercy  Philbrick's  Choice.'  " 

"  I  liked  it  extremely.  It  is  the  best  in  the  series  so  far,  except  in  con 
struction,  in  which  '  Is  That  All  ? '  slight  as  k  is,  seem*  to  me  superior. 
'  Kismet '  is  winning  golden  opinions  everywhere.  I  hare  icthing  but  praises 
for  it,  and  have  nothing  but  praise  to  give  it." 

"  I  have  read  '  Kismet '  once,  and  mean  to  read  it  aga&  It  u  thorough! ' 
charming,  and  will  be  a  success." 

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"  NO    NAME    SERIES." 


MIRAGE. 

"  Is  in  many  respects  superior  to  '  Kismet.'  The  story  is  told  with  great  care,  the 
style  is  more  earnest  and  more  vigorous  than  that  of  '  Kismet,'  the  feeling  is  deeper, 
the  tone  higher,  the  execution  smoother,  the  author  more  confident  of  herself,  and 
apparently  conscious  of  increasing  strength,"  says  the  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  The  author  is  to  be  congratulated  on  having  made  progress  in  novel-writing,  for 
'  Mirage'  is  certainly  an  improvement  on  '  Kismet,'  and,  above  all,  it  is  a  work  sui 
feneris"  says  the  London  Athenaum. 

"  It  was  only  to  be  expected,  and  even  more  to  be  hoped,  that  the  author  of 
'  Kismet '  would  make  a  second  attempt  in  a  field  similar  to  that  in  which  his  first 
laurels  were  Won.  We  are  happy  -to  say  that  fresh  ground  has  been  broken  with 
remarkable  success,  and  that  '  Mirage '  may  fairly  rank  beside  its  fascinating  prede 
cessor,"  says  the  London  Court  Journal. 

"  Here,  too,  we  have  a  group  of  Americans  who  'do*  Syria  instead  of  Egypt. 
Those  readers  —  and  their  number  has  been  many  —  who  found  a  charm  in  '  Kismet ' 
may  take  up  '  Mirage '  without  fear  of  disappointment,"  says  the  London  Graphic. 

"  '  Mirage '  is  by  the  author  of  '  Kismet,'  so,  of  course,  we  are  spared  the  trouble 
of  guessing.  It  may  be  set  beside  the  latter  work,  as  the  two  best  novels  of  the 
'  No  Name  Series.'  .  .  .  The  work,  in  some  essential  particulars,  shows  an  advance 
on  'Kismet.'  The  style  is  firmer  and  more  assured,  and  the  characters  exhibit  a 
better  subordination  to  the  author's  design.  These  will  not  be  the  last  works  from 
the  same  pen :  the  author  is  not  mistaken  in  her  vocation,"  says  the  New  York 
Tribune. 

"We  had  occasion,  some  months  since,  to  speak  of  'Kismet'  as  a  clever  and 
promising  novel ;  and  we  are  happy  to  be  able  to  say  that  the  author  of  '  Kismet'  has 
redeemed  the  pledge  of  that  work  with  even  greater  promptness  than  was  to  be 
expected.  '  Mirage'  strikes  us  as  very  clever  indeed,  and  as  a  decided  advance  upon 
its  predecessor.  .  .  .  Great  charm  of  description,  a  great  deal  of  fineness  of  observation, 
a  grea*  deal  of  wit  in  the  conversations,  a  constant  facility  and  grace  of  style,  —  these 
good  points  are  decidedly  more  noticeable.  .  .  .  The  present  book  is  infinitely  fresher 
and  wittier  than  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  novels  periodically  emitted  by  the 
regular  group  of  English  fiction-mongers,"  says  the  New  York  Nation. 

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THE    "NO    NAME    SERIES." 


A   MODERN   MEPHISTOPHELF.S. 

"  It  is  decidedly  the  best  novel  of  the  series,  thus  far.  .  .  .  The  leading  idea  of  *A 
Modern  Mephistopheles '  is  ingenious.  The  characters  are  skilfully  chosen  to  repre 
sent  it :  the  one  secret  in  the  story  is  beyond  the  guessing  of  most  readers,  and 
admirably  concealed  until  the  true  moment  for  its  disclosure ;  and  the  denouement  is 
as  satisfactory  as  we  could  expect.  Helwyze,  like  Goethe's  Mephistopheles,  wills  the 
bad  and  works  the  good  :  the  justice  of  Fate  falls  upon  him,  and  not  upon  his  victim. 
But  this  is  the  only  point  of  resemblance.  Gladys,  although  occupying  the  place  of 
Margaret,  is  an  entirely  different  creature,  and  it  is  the  best  success  of  the  author's 
art  that  she  is  more  real  to  us  than  the  other  three  characters.  The  work  belongs  to 
the  class  of  imaginative  fiction  which  claims  its  right  to  dispense  with  probability  or 
even  strict  dramatic  consistency.  It  cannot  be  measured  by  the  standard  which  wa 
apply  to  novels  of  society  or  of  ordinary  human  interests,  but  rather  by  that  which 
belongs  to  poetry.' '  —  New  York  Tribune, 

"  The  latest  issue  of  the  '  No  Name  '  Series  claims  precedence  not  only  because  it 
is  the  freshest  novelty,  but  through  an  excellence  that  places  it  readily  first.  Consid 
ered  alike  for  its  interest  as  a  tale  and  for  its  elegance  of  literary  art,  it  is  a  work  that 
alone  will  give  distinction  to  the  series.  The  plot  is  peculiarly  novel  in  its  details  if  not 
in  its  general  conception  ;  aad  throughout  the  story  the  most  pervading  impression  is 
that  of,  the  freshness  —  not  crudeness,  but  the  freshness  of  mature  thought  —  which 
it  everywhere  carries.  .  .  .  The  title  is  but  a  hint.  It  is  no  revamping  of  Goethe's 
story  of  Faust,  nor  a  plagiarism  of  ideas  in  any  form  ;  unless  the  central  thought,  of 
the  '  woman-soul  that  leads  us  upward  and  on,'  which  is  common  to  romantic  as  to 
psychological  fiction,  may  be  considered  such.  The  characters  are  drawn  with  a 
sharp  outline,  standing  forth  as  distinctly  individual  as  the  etchings  of  Retzsch  ;  and 
for  symmetry  and  consistency,  in  every  word  and  every  action  which  the  author  makes 
them  think,  speak,  or  do,  they  are  thoroughly  admirable  creations.  Four  figures  only 
appear  in  the  action  on  this  little  stage ;  and  the  story,  when  analyzed,  shows  a  strange 
absence  of  what  is  usually  considered  the  dramatic  element.  Yet  such  is  the  skill  of 
the  author  that  the  reader  is  led  on  as  by  the  most  vivid  material  tragedy,  compelled 
by  the  development  of  thought  and  feeling.  .  .  .  More  than  this,  the  book  is  a  constant 
intellectual  delight.  The  grace  of  the  author's  style  is  equalled  by  its  finish.  De" 
scription  and  conversation  are  like  a  fine  mosaic,  in  which  the  delicate  art  of  the 
workmanship  passes  unseen,  and  the  eye  catches  only  the  perfect  picture  until  a  close 
examinaiion  reveals  the  method  of  its  structure."  —  Boston  Post. 

"  This  series,  so  far,  has  brought  us  no  prose  work  equal  in  depth  and  dramatic 
design  to  this  one.  .  .  .  It  is  unquestionably  the  work  of  genius,  powerful  in  concep 
tion,  elegant  in  construction,  lofty  in  tone,  proving,  as  few  books  do,  the  power  of  one 
clean,  white  soul,  to  cope  with  evil  in  its  most  insidious  forms,  while  preserving  its 
wn  '  crystal  clarity.'  .  .  .  But  who  wrote  this  story  ?  Whose  hand  painted  these 
marvellous  pictures  of  the  angel  and  the  demon  striving  for  the  mastery  in  every 
human  soul  ?  "  —  The  New  Age. 

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"NO    NAME    SERIES." 


MARMORNE. 

"  It  is  not,  however,  merely  on  account  of  outward  characteristics  that  we  have 
called  '  Marmorne'  a  remarkable  book.  It  is  also  one  of  the  most  powerful  novels 
of  the  narrative,  as  opposed  to  the  analytical,  class,  that  has  appeared  for  a  long  time," 
says  the  London  Athenautn. 

"  '  Marmorne '  makes  its  appearance  anonymously ;  but  we  are  persuaded  that  the 
author  is  no  novice,  and  are  inclined  to  fancy  that  we  recognize  the  hand,  .  .  .  which 
reminds  us  not  a  little  of  '  Round  my  House."  .  .  .  He  has  written  a  novel  which  is 
extremely  fascinating  and  eminently  picturesque,"  says  the  Saturday  Review. 

"  This  can  only  be  characterized  as  a  masterpiece  of  extraordinary  artistic  sim 
plicity.  ...  In  other  words,  it  is  a  plain  narrative  of  events,  written  with  a  skill  and 
a  power  that  are  truly  admirable,"  says  the  London  World. 

"  As  a  whole,  it  is  one  of  the  best  of  the  series  in  which  it  appears,"  says  the 
Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  We  think  no  reader  of  '  Around  my  House '  and  '  The  Unknown  River '  will 
hesitate  long  as  to  where  to  fix  the  authorship  of '  Marmorne,'  "  says  iheJSoston  Tran 
script. 

"  The  descriptive  passages  in  this  book  entitle  it  to  the  first  rank  in  the  '  No  Name 
Series,'  but  there  have  been  so  many  good  novels  included  under  that  title  that  we  are 
not  quite  prepared  to  say  it  is  the  best.  It  is,  however,  good  enough  to  be  included 
among  the  most  successful  stories  of  the  year,"  says  the  Boston  Courier. 

"  We  will  not  call  this  the  best  story  of  the  '  No  Name  Series,'  because  some  one 
else  is  sure  to  do  it,  each  volume  having  received  that  praise  as  it  appeared.  Cer 
tainly  there  has  been  nothing  better  in  the  series ;  and,  if  it  is  written  by  an  American, 
it  is  a  clever  performance,  for  it  has  a  thoroughly  foreign  air,"  says  the  New  York 
Herald. 

"  '  Marmorne,'  the  latest  of  the  '  No  Name  Series,'  and  by  far  the  best  of  those 
recently  issued  under  the  title.  It  is  attributed,  and  we  think  without  mistake,  to 
the  accomplished  English  painter  and  art  critic,  Philip  Gilbert  Hamerton.  It  is  a 
clever  book,"  says  the  Hartford  Courant. 

"  The  4  No  Name  Series '  has  had  a  large  reputation  :  the  present  volume  will  add 
new  admirers,  as  it  is  the  best  of  the  series,"  says  the  Chicago  Inter-Ocean. 

"  One  of  the  best  of  the  '  No  Name  Series '  which  has  been  thus  far  issued  is  the 
number  now  before  us.  From  the  very  outset  it  yields  the  comfort  afforded  by  the 
touch  of  a  strong  hand.  .  .  It  is,  in  any  event,  a  book  which  Hamerton  cannot 
regret  to  have  ascribed  to  him,  as  it  is  full  worthy  of  his  genius  and  reputation,"  says 
the  Chicago  Tribune. 

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THE    "NO    NAME    SERIES." 

What  Is  thought  of  the  Initial  Volume 
of  the  Series, 

"MERCY    PHILBBICK'S    CHOICE." 

"  '  Mercy  Philbrick's  Choice '  reads  rather  like  a  record  than  a  story.  Its  per 
sonages  are  few  in  number ;  there  is  no  '  sensation,'  almost  no  plot,  yet  it  is  highly 
interesting.  In  saying  this,  we  indicate  a  remarkable  story.  The  stage  properties  of 
a  novel  —  events,  situations,  surprises  —  are  cheap,  and  easy  to  come  by.  It  is  the 
higher  art  which  discards  these;  and  trusts  for  effect  to  truth  and  subtlety  of  character 
drawing." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  A  novel  wholly  out  of  the  common  course,  both  in  plot  and  style.  .  .  .  The  moral 
of  the  book  is  wholesome,  —  that  no  good  can  come  from  deceit,  and  that  the  relations 
of  life  and  innocent  love  should  be  frank  and  without' concealment.  Morbidness  works 
only  for  misery,  and  it  is  the  sane  and^sunny  and  sound  people  who  get  the  best  out  of 
this  life."  —  Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  '  Mercy  Philbrick's  Choice  '  is  a  story  of  great  power,  great  depth  of  thought  and 
feeling,  great  tenderness  and  reverence  for  the  truthfulness  of  truth,  and  great  insight 
into  life.  .  .  .  We  dare  place  it  alongside  George  Eliot's  latest  in  point  of  poetic  in 
sight,  vigor,  and  knowledge  of  life,  and  to  say  that  it  is  superior  to  Daniel  Deronda  ' 
in  style,  and  informed  by  a  purer  and  deeper  philosophy."  —  Charles  D.  Warner,  in 
the  Hartford  Courant. 

"  It  is  a  pleasure,  in  these  days,  to  get  hold  of  a  new  American  novel  which  mani 
fests  both  culture  and  literary  skill.  The  author  of  'Mercy  Philbrick's  Choice'  is 
evidently  a  woman  who  looks  upon  authorship  as  something  more  than  a  pastime,  — 
a  woman  of  clear  intelligent  tastes  and  distinct  aspirations.  The  refined  quality  of 
her  intellect  impresses  itself  upon  the  story  from  first  to  last."  —  New  Yvrk  Tribune, 

"There  are  many  things  to  be  admired  in  this  novel.  The  artistic  delineation  of 
character  and  the  subtle  rendering  of  the  human  atmosphere  show  a  keen  appreciation 
of  the  delicate  shades  which  make  personality  and  influence  the  life  of  ourselves  and 
others."  —  The  Liberal  Christian. 

"  It  is  a  striking  and  touching  story,  — this  new  one,  — and  will  be  greatly  read  and 
admired,  as  it  deserves  to  be.  There  is  even  genius  in  some  of  its  touches,  which 
remind  one  of  a  feminine  counterpart  to  Hawthorne.  "  —  Springfield  Republican. 

"  The  volume  is  interspersed  with  some  of  the  sweetest  poems  to  which  these  latter 
days  have  given  birth,  showing  that  the  author  is  a  master  of  poesy  as  well  as  of  fas 
cinating  fiction."  —  Hartford  Post. 

"  It  is  a  story  of  the  simplest  motives,  but  as  lovely  and  heart-holding  as  a  sweet 
folk-song.  Every  page  is  endearingly  true  to  the  innermost  part  of  humanity,  and  the 
author  transcribes  the  workings  of  hearts  and  minds  with  no  less  faithfulness  than  she 
(we  insist  that  it  is  a  'she'  )  gives  exquisite  pictures  of  nature  and  the  handiwork 
which  '  fashions  in  silence.'  The  story  is  from  the  pen  of  a  poet,  and  the  inter-current 
verses  are  each  and  all  gems  of  '  ray  serene,'  not  too  flashing,  but  very,  very  appreciable 
to  eyes  which  have  learned  how  to  weep."  —  Boston  Traveller. 

"  Read  the  book,  which  is  fascinating.  The  author  is  certainly  a  woman.  And 
she  is  a  poet,  too,  of  no  mean  powers,  as  is  proved  by  the  half  dozen  short  poems 
in  the  book.  The  sonnet  engraved  on  Mercy's  tombstone  is  not  surpassed  by  any  of 
Wordsworth."—  Troy  Whig. 

"  This  book  is  a  novel  only  in  the  sense  that  George  Eliot's  books  are  novels.  The 
story  is  subordinated  to  showing  the  inevitable  working  out  of  opposing  moral  forces. 
The  characters,  well  drawn  as  some  of  them  are,  are  hardly  more  than  dial-pointers  on 
the  clock  of  fate.  Of  dramatic  motive  there  is  more  than  enough."  —  The  Unitarian 
Review. 

In  one  volume,  IGmo.    Cloth.    Gilt  and  red-lettered.    81.00. 

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found,  send  directly  to 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


NO    NAME    SERIES. 


HETTY'S  STRANGE  HISTORY. 


BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "MERCY  PHILBRICK'S  CHOICE." 


"  The  critic  whom  I  have  already  quoted  —  one  whom  long  residence  in  a 
foreign  country  has  made  a  more  dispassionate  judge  of  American  literature 
than  most  of  us  can  be  —  declared  it  as  his  judgment  that  '  Hetty's  Strange 
History  '  is  the  most  remarkable  of  recent  American  fictions.  Such  is  my  own 
opinion,  so  far  as  I  am  competent  to  judge.  .  .  .  The  field  of  great  fiction 
must  always  be,  after  all,  in  profound  emotions  and  strange  histories."  — 
T.  IV.  Higginson,  in  the  Woman's  Journal. 

"The  sterling  merit  of  the  author  of  'Hetty's  Strange  History'  is  her 
hearty  strength.  .  .  .  The  atmosphere  of  this  book  is  regal ;  it  is  a  moral  tonic 
of  the  wholesomest  sort.  To  walk  with  Hetty  is  to  breathe  imperial  air,  to 
don  the  royal  purple,  and  to  take  up  the  sceptre  of  the  world ;  only  for  a  few 
bright  hours,  but  it  is  a  noble  illusion  while  it  lasts. 

"  The  superiority  of  this  story  to  the  author's  first, '  Mercy  Philbrick's  Choice,' 
is  very  marked.  .  .  .  Hetty  is  very  human,  and  makes  her  great  mistake  easily 
enough,  in  a  most  natural  and  human  way,  and  cures  it  at  the  right  time,  with 
out  any  foolish  ado ;  but  from  first,  to  last  her  masterful  pulse  beats  to  a  noble 
rhythm ;  whatever  she  does,  she  does  worthily,  and  we  praise  her  at  every 
step.  w; 

"  This  book  is  sure  to  be  liked,  because  it  brings  the  best  of  what  every 
aspiring  mind — no  matter  how  weak  now  —  reaches  after  with  intense  desire; 
and  it  is  impossible  to  go  through  it,  and-  not  feel  at  the  end  that  its  society  has 
greatly  cheered  and  ennobled  one's  own  life.  It  is  by  far  the  best  of  the  '  No- 
Name  Series.'  "  —  "  Richmond,"  N.  Y.  Correspondent  of  the  Chicago  Journal. 

One  volume,  i6mo,  bound  in  cloth,  cardinal  red  and  black.     Price  $1.00. 


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send  directly  to 

"ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

Boston. 


THE   "NO  NAME   SERIES." 


AFTERGLOW. 

"  The  seventh  of  the  '  No  Name  Series,'  *  Afterglow,'  is  a  strong  novel,  and,  in 
many  respects,  a  remarkable  one.  .  .  .  The  style  is  easy,  and  that  of  an  accomplished 
writer ;  the  tone,  through  most  of  the  book,  cool,  satirical,  with  more  than  a  touch  of 
mockery,  and  sparkling  with  unexpected  wit,  touches  of  exquisite  drollery,  and  ingen 
ious  lancies.  Although  each  character  is  by  itself,  unattractive,  and  its  faulty  side 
carefully  displayed,  the  complications  and  social  plots  are  so  easy  and  admirably 
handled  that,  mean  as  they  are,  they  become  of  great  interest,  and  the  matter  of  per 
sonal  mutual  influence  is  so  prominent  that  it  gives  the  story  a  philosophical  air,  and 
the  dignity  that  it  needs.  .  .  .  For  three-quarters  of  the  book  the  reader  admires  the 
cleverness,  the  capital  workmanship  only  :  he  closes  it  with  the  verdict  that  the  story 
is  not  only  clever,  but  that  it  is  far  more  and  far  better  than  clever."  —  Boston  Daily 
A  dvertiser. 

"  With  the  exception  of  the  delicately  written  sketch,  '  Is  That  All?'  none  of  the 
4  No  Name'  books  have  been  so  good  literature  as  '  Afterglow,'  the  latest  on  the  list ; 
and  the  qualities  of  this  story  stand  in  an  order  which  ought  to  gain  it  the  favor  of  the 
best  readers.  ...  In  fact,  the  simple  and  direct  narration,  and  the  treatment  of  inci 
dents  and  characters,  more  than  once  recall  the  master  of  modern  fiction."  —  Tft4 
A  tlantic  Monthly. 

"  It  is  so  seldom  that  one  finds  in  a  recent  American  novel  a  positive  addition  to 
literature  that  the  issue  of  a  work  like  'Afterglow,'  the  latest  volume  of  the 'No 
Name'  Series  of  Messrs.  Roberts  Brothers,  merits  cordial  recognition.  The  book  is 
the  production  of  no  ordinary  mind.  .  .  .  Those  inclined  to  guess  the  authorship  need 
not  go  beyond  the  men  who  are  known  in  literature.  There  are  some  sketchy  features 
in  the  story,  but  there  is  a  firm  grasp  in  the  narrative  which  proves  the  hand  that 
weaves  it  to  be  that  of  a  master.  It  is  thoroughly  polished  in  its  satire,  and  the  wit 
in  which  it  abounds  is  of  the  keenest  character.  ...  It  is,  it  may  safely  be  said,  the 
production  of  one  of  the  '  Atlantic  Monthly '  school  of  writers.  '  Afterglow '  is  not  the 
kind  of  novel  that  is  generally  designated  as  popular,'  but  it  is  a  work  displaying  more 
talent  and  more  originality  than  any  of  its  predecessors  in  the  '  No  Name  Series,'  and 
will  be  a  standard  favorite  with  thoughtful  and  cultivated  people."  — Boston  Saturday 
Gazette. 

"  Whether  or  not  '  Afterglow,'  which  is  the  latest,  is  also  the  best  of  the  '  No 
Name'  novels,  is  a  question  upon  which  the  faithful  readers  of  that  excellent  series 
will  probably  differ,  but  there  will  be  no  hesitation  on  the  part  of  any  of  them  to  accord 
it  a  place  as  at  least  one  of  the  best."  —  ff.  Y.  Evening  Post. 

One  volume.    Bound  in  cardinal  red  and  black.     Price  SI. 00. 


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be  found,  send  directly  to 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


THE    "NO    NAME    SERIES." 


"IS    THAT    ALL?" 

"  In  some  respects,  this  is  the  best  of  the  three  volumes  yet  published  of 
this  series.  For,  though  it  does  not  go  so  deep  as  '  Mercy  Philbrick,'  nor 
deal  in  poetic  fancies  like  '  Deirdre,'  it  is  better  sustained  on  its  own  surface- 
level  than  either  of  those  romances.  It  is  not  a  romance  at  all  in  fact,  but 
a  pleasing  sketch,  somewhat  too  warmly  colored,  of  New  England  social  life 
in  the  well-bred  circle  of  a  small  city,  —  say  Hartford.  The  plot  is  simple  and 
direct,  and  the  story  closes  before  it  has  time  to  become  tiresome  in  any 
particular.  .  .  .  The  book  is  all  it  professes  to  be,  and  sometlu'ng  more,  and 
will  certainly  be  popular."  —  Springfield  Republican. 

"  The  new  novel  of  the  '  No  Name  Series '  belongs  of  right  to  the  class  of 
stories  which  men  and  women  take  with  them  on  vacation  journeys.  It  has 
little  plot,  and  what  little  there  is  is  of  the  slightest  kind.  It  is  meant  to  be 
light  and  amusing,  and  is  so  in  a  high  degree.  The  picture  it  gives  of  high 
life  in  a  provincial  city  is  very  fine,  and  a  spirit  of  bantering  which  nms 
through  it  makes  it  extremely  piquant.  As  to  the  authorship  it  is  idle  to 
guess.  We  leave  the  solution  of  the  question  to  the  reader's  own,  skill  in 
reading  riddles,  and  commend  the  anonvmous  book  to  his  attention  as  one 
which  will  entertain  him  greatly,  whether  or  not  he  can  guess  its  origin." 
—  Nrw  York  Evening  Post. 

"  '  Is  That  All  ? '  third  in  order  of  the  conundrums  at  which  the  Messrs. 
Roberts  have  set  the  world  a-guessing,  perplexes  conjecture  in  a  greater  degree 
than  its  predecessors.  Its  style  recalls  none  of  our  better-known  writers ;  and, 
in  spite  of  the  assurance  of  the  publishers,  we  should  be  disposed  to  set  it 
down  as  the  work  of  a  fresh  hand,  were  it  not  for  the  practice  and  finish  which 
it  evinces.  It  is,  to  use  its  own  words,  a  'very  meringue  of  a  story,'  light, 
crisp,  delicately  flavored ;  but,  for  all  this  sketchiness,  it  is  full  of  real  character 
and  individuality.  .  .  .  There  is  a  great  deal  of  bright,  natural  conversation, 
some  capital  love-making,  and  both  humor  and  good-humor  in  the  pithy,  half- 
sarcastic  touches  which  glance  here  and  there  on  the  page  like  a  smile  out  of 
quizzical,  friendly  eyes."  —  Boston  Transcript. 

"  It  is  cleverly  constructed  in  plot,  and  has  the  rare  merit  of  seeming  too 
short.  The  style  is  bright  and  animated,  the  characters  are  evidently  drawn 
from  life,  and  spiritedly  drawn  at  that.  The  conversations  are  sparlding  and 
witty,  and  the  work  is  unmistakably  from  the  hand  of  one  thoroughly  ac 
quainted  with  the  world  and  with  good  society.  It  is  the  best  book  of  the 
series,  thus  far,  though,  as  the  author  says,  '  a  very  meringue  of  a  story.'  Its 
naturalness  is  not  the  least  of  its  charms.  We  have  been  thoroughly  delighted 
with  it,  and  we  assure  our  readers  that  they  will  derive  equal  pleasure  and  satis 
faction  from  its  perusal.  The  name  of  the  author  has  not  yet  transpired,  but 
we  hazard  the  guess  that  it  is  a  woman,  —  not  owing  to  any  effeminacy  or 
weakness  in  the  style,  but  from  the  fact  that  no  one  but  a  woman  would  write 
so  saucily  about  the  gentler  sex.  We  advise  everybody  to  read  tliis  clever  little 
story."  —  Saturday  Gazette. 

In  one  volume,  16mo.    Cloth.    Gilt  and  red-lettered.    itl.OO. 

Oar  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers.  When  not  to 
be  found,  send  directly  to 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  Publishers,  Boston. 


Messrs.    Roberts   Brothers    Publications. 


(Sjtconb) 

MRS.  BEAUCHAMP  BROWN. 


"  '  MRS.  BEAUCHAMP  BROWN,'  the  last  volume  of  the  '  No  Name  '  series,  is  A 
novel  worthy  of  something  more  than  a  casual  perusal.  To  the  veteran  novel 
reader,  surfeited  with  the  wearisome  sameness  of  the  average  romance  of  our 
time,  this  book  is  a  refreshing  surprise.  It  does  not  depend  for  its  interest  on  the 
hackneyed  sensations  which  seem  to  be  the  chief  stock-in-trade  of  so  many  con 
temporaneous  writers.  The  plot  is  decidedly  original,  and  the  story  develops 
naturally,  and  is  worked  out  with  conscientious  fidelity  to  the  predetermined  plan 
to  its  climax  and  conclusion,  but  its  chiefest  charm  lies  rather  in  the  skilful 
character  drawing  and  clever,  even  epigrammatic,  dialogue,  which  characterize  it. 
That  it  is  written  by  a  woman  is  apparent,  and  that  the  writer  is  thoroughly  a 
woman  of  the  world,  familiar  vith  the  best  society,  both  here  and  abroad,  is 
equally  evident. 

"  The  story  is  exquisitely  told,  and  there  are  bits  of  dialogue  and  description 
which  would  do  no  discredit  to  any  of  the  masters  of  fiction.  Some  of  the  char 
acters —  notably  of  Mrs.  Beauchamp  Brown,  Margaret,  Camilla,  Rochfort,  and 
Paul  —  are  drawn  with  a  vigor  and  clearness  which  give  them  a  strikingly  distinctive 
individuality  ;  they  stand  out,  indeed,  in  the  story  like  the  central  figures  in  a 
picture,  full  of  rare  and  beautiful  effects."  —  Frank  Leslie's  Lady 's  Journal. 

"  The  new  '  No  Name  '  story  certainly  has  all  the  requirements  of  a  novel,  — 
a  faultlessly  beautiful  heroine,  two  gay  young  girls  not  yet  twenty,  and  an  aunt  at 
the  top  of  society.  .  .  .  Every  one  who  has  travelled  to  Mount  Desert  will  rec 
ognize  the  bright,  pleasing  pictures  of  scenery,  as  well  as  of  life  in  boat  and 
wagon.  Mrs.  Beauchamp  Brown  is  well  drawn,"  says  the  Daily  Advertiser. 

"  Everybody  will  be  glad  to  know  that  Roberts  Bros.,  Boston,  have  added 
their  '  No  Name  '  series  a  new  novel,  'Mrs.  Beauchamp  Brown.'  In  themselves, 
the  '  No  Name '  stories  are  always  very  well  worth  rending,  and  they  have  the  added 
charm  that  always  attends  a  mystery.  There  is  much  satisfaction  to  be  found  in 
the  attempt  to  discover  the  author's  carefully  concealed  identity;  to  endeavor  by  a 
close  consideration  of  style,  plot,  and  motive  to  link  the  new  book  with  some  other 
book  already  in  existence,  the  authorship  of  which  is  not  hidden.  In  most  cases 
this  attempt  is  a  failure  ;  but  as  the  people  who  guess  are  very  well  satisfied  with 
their  guessing,  the  fact  that  they  guess  wrongly  is  not  of  much  consequence.  -The 
new  story  will  set  tongues  a-wagging  even  more  briskly  than  usual,  for  it  deals 
with  serious  matters  which  just  now  engross  a  good  deal  of  attention  and  which 
seriously  affect  the  happiness  of  many  lives.  .  .  .  Apart  from  all  other  considera 
tions,  it  is  an  interesting  story,  told  in  a  clear,  fresh  style,  seasoned  with  a  certain 
amount  of  wit  and  especially  strong  in  its  sketching  of  character.  The  author  has 
not  shrunk  from  placing  figures  upon  her  stage  —  indeed,  her  stage  is  almost 
unduly  crowded,  and  she  has  given  to  each  of  her  figures  a  well-defined  individ 
uality.  From  the  ponderous  Mrs.  Beauchamp  Brown  herself —  who  is  merely  the 
titular  divinity  of  the  book  and  has  very  little  to  do  with  the  action  —  down  to 
Jubal  Keene,  the  native-born  Yankee  of  Plum  Island,  each  of  the  characters  has 
a  real  personality.  They  severally  look  and  act  their  assigned  parts  as  well  as  speak 
them." — Philadelphia  Times. 

"A  work  -which  will  command  a  wide  reading,  because  it  compels  Boston 
society  to  come  forth  from  its  shell  and  take  a  look  at  itself,"  says  the  Eosioti  Post. 

In  one  volume.     i6mo.     Green  cloth.     Price  $1.00. 

Our  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers.  When 
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ROBERTS    BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

Roston. 


Messrs.  -Rober 


A     000100299     7 


THE    "NO   NAME"    (SECOND)     SERIES. 


HIS  MAJESTY,  MYSELF. 

"  The  last  '  No  Name '  novel  cannot  long  remain  anonymous.  '  His  Majesty, 
Myself  '  is  so  remarkable  a  piece  of  work  that  its  author  must  be  known.  The  title- 
page  is  concise  and  brilliant,  the  opening  chapters  are  concise  and  brilliant; 
powerfully  drawn  characters  come  and  go  in  the  story  ;  brilliancy  gives  place  to 
pathos,  pathos  deepens  into  tragedy,  tragedy  is  relieved  by  wit,  wit  softened  by 
tenderness.  Scenes  of  the  homeliest  simplicity  alternate  with  those  of  the  most 
intense  emotion  and  terrible  anguish.  Characters  are  dissected,  are  analyzed  with 
consummate  skill;  events  told  with  masterly  dramatic  power ;  shams  are  riddled 
with  arrows  of  scorn ;  the  hidden  things  in  human  hearts  are  set  in  the  light,  and 
readers  are  forced  to  judge  themselves  in  this  powerful  revelation  of  human 
nature."  — Boston  Daily  Advertiser. 

"The  last  novel  of  the  '  No  Name  Series '  has  made  a  decided  sensation.  It 
gives  the  most  graphic  and  scathing  description  of  the  result  of  sensational 
preaching  —  of  the  preaching  of  the  gospel  of  Christ  w:ith  Christ  left  out.  It  is  a 
thoroughly  manly  and  healthy  book  to  read.  Joseph  Cook,  at  a  late  Boston  Con 
ference,  spoke  of  it  thus  :  '  I  have  just  read  "  His  Majesty,  Myself."  It  is  a  power 
ful  and  manly  book  from  beginning  to  end.  It  is  full  of  bright,  keen  Orthodoxy.' 
This  is  high  praise,  but  none  too  high.  The  author,  whoever  he  be,  is  an  Ortho- 
dux  evangelical  Christian,  who  has  iron  in  his  blood  and  brain,  and  who  writes 
with  a  gold  pen,  diamond-tipt.  Old  Princeton!  ans  will  find  among  its  characters 
some  acquaintances  and  friends,  professors  and  students."  —  TJie  Presbyterian. 

"  This  is  one  of  the  strongest  novels  the  present  year  has  produced.  The 
course  of  a  sensational  clergyman  who  gives  his  flock  truth  garnered  from  the 
newspapers  instead  of  from  the  Bible,  and  proclaims  himself  far  more  than  his 
Lord,  is  thinkingly  depicted.  The  whole  book  is  one  of  the  keenest  descriptions 
of  the  terrible  nature  of  selfishness  we  have  ever  read,  and  if  it  is  not  marked  in 
stantly  as  one  of  the  most  powerful  of  the  most  remarkable  series  to  which  it 
belongs,  we  shall  be  greatly  surprised."  —  Christian  Intelligencer. 

"  No  one  will  take  exception  to  the  statement  that  'His  Majesty,  Myself,'  the 
latest  '  No  Name'  novel,  is  a  powerful  book  It  is  a  work  which  is  as  marked  in 
vigor  as  it  is  in  originality.  No  one  but  a  man  of  genius  could  have  written  it. 
No  person  can  read  it  without  receiving  a  marked  impression.  It  is  one  of  those 
stories  which  must  remain  in  the  memory,  and  this  long  after  tales  which  have 
more  of  unity  and  are  much  more."  —  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  As  an  exhibit  of  sound  religious  thinking  and  pure  religious  feeling,  as  far  re 
moved  from  Moose  notions'  and  weak  sentiment  on  the  one  side  as  from  dead 
formalism  and  cold  cant  on  the  other,  it  has  few  equals.  He  has  written  a  Fifth 
Gospel,  and  we  reckon  him  a  true  evangelist,"  says  a  retired  clergyman. 

In  one  volume,  16iiio.     Green  cloth.     Price  iSl.OO. 


Our  publications  are  to  be  had  of  all  Booksellers, 
to  be  found,  send  directly  to  the  Publishers, 


When  not 


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